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 frosty 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. 

It wasn't long, however, before Frederick realized that al-Kamil was stalling. A show of force was clearly needed to grab his attention. The emperor abruptly cut off negotiations and began making obvious plans to march toward Jerusalem. The coastal city of Jaffa, which protected the approach to the Holy City, was fortified as if in preparation for a grand offensive, and the army began stockpiling food. The sultan got the message. While the emperor was still in Jaffa, delegates arrived asking for a truce. 

The negotiations were difficult, but Frederick was in his element. When the envoys arrived he greeted them in Arabic and regaled them with his knowledge of the Koran. The formative years he had spent in Sicily had equipped him with a subtle understanding of the Islamic mind. He knew exactly when to parry and when to thrust, when to take a hard line and when to compromise. In three months he managed to do with his tongue what the three previous crusades had failed to do with swords. The Holy City was regained. 

Victory in Defeat

Appropriately enough, nearly every term of the treaty was a compromise. Both sides agreed to a ten-year truce, and Jerusalem – with the exception of its mosques – was restored to Christian control, along with Bethlehem, Nazareth, and a thin strip of land connecting them to the coast. The Holy City itself was to remain without walls or garrison, and Islamic pilgrims would have free access to the al-Aqsa Mosque, the Dome of the Rock, or any other site of worship. Additionally, all current Muslim residents could stay, and their communities would have their own officials and be under Sharia law. As a last stipulation, Frederick would remain neutral in any war between Islam and the other Christian states, and would assist the Muslims if any Christian broke the truce. 

When the first reports that Jerusalem had been retaken leaked out, a wild euphoria gripped Outremer. In a moment Frederick had been transformed from a conniving devil to the great hero of Christendom. Bells in every city rang, men wept openly in the streets and services of thanksgiving were held. As the details trickled out, however, joy turned to puzzlement and then horror. 

The city was barely in Christian hands at all. They would have no power over a large segment of the population, no control of numerous holy sites, and no ability whatsoever to restrict entry into the city. Even worse, the defensive walls couldn't be rebuilt and the city was strategically isolated. Its only connection to the rest of Outremer was a thin corridor of land that could be cut off at the whim of its neighbors. The terms of the treaty made Jerusalem completely indefensible. This was no great victory; it was a diplomatic sham. 

It didn't help matters that al-Kamil publicly boasted about his diplomatic triumph. He had diffused the crusade for the laughable sum of 'a few churches and ruined houses. All the sacred sites', he assured his audience, 'would remain in Muslim hands, and Islam would continue to flourish as before'. In any case, he finished, he would 'purge' Jerusalem of Christians the moment the truce expired

It's hard to see what else Frederick could have done in his compromised position, but his treaty was the settlement of a man who was interested in a coronation, not the long-term stability of Outremer. He, at least, had gotten exactly what he wanted and he wasted no time planning a lavish ceremony in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. 

The Patriarch of Jerusalem, as expected, flatly refused to have anything to do with it. When Frederick ignored him and entered the city anyway, the Patriarch placed the entire city under interdict. Anyone who participated in the ceremony or supported it would join the emperor outside the church. 

What followed was one of the most bizarre episodes in crusading history. On the morning of March 18, 1229, Frederick II Barbarossa entered the city's holiest church to find it deserted. However tenuous the arrangement, he had single-handedly accomplished the stated objective of every crusade to liberate Jerusalem. Yet this great victory had only brought bitterness as both Christians and Muslims felt betrayed by their leaders. Frederick himself was a walking contradiction – an excommunicate enemy of the faith who was also the leader of a holy mission for the church that could offer remission of sins. 

There was no one to perform a coronation or even a simple mass, but Frederick wasn't to be denied. One more defiant gesture would only add to the legend. Flanked by the German soldiers who had followed him in, he donned his imperial crown and declared himself the King of Jerusalem. It was a joyless affair, made even more so by the obvious mutual contempt between the emperor and his new subjects. The next day he left the city never to return. 

By the time he reached Acre, he was in a foul mood. He hadn't expected gratitude from the citizens of Outremer, but he at least expected respect. The worst offender was the Patriarch of Jerusalem who had made no secret of his feelings. The insufferable man had beaten Frederick to Acre and rallied the nobility against him. 

The emperor was in no mood to deal with insubordination. He hauled the Patriarch in front of him and angrily demanded to be recognized as king. Equally furious, the Patriarch roared back that he didn't take orders from traitors. That was the last straw. Frederick seized the city, ordering his soldiers to evict anyone who wouldn't admit that he was the rightful King of Jerusalem. Those who protested with speeches were publicly flogged, and the Patriarch was put under house arrest. 

The only thing that prevented further escalation between imperial forces and locals, was Frederick's overwhelming desire to leave as soon as possible. In his absence from Europe, Gregory IX had been busy. He had recruited an army, quite fittingly under the command of John of Brienne, the dispossessed former King of Jerusalem and father-in-law of Frederick. The papal force had swept into Frederick's southern Italian territory and were on the verge of conquering it. 

On May 1, 1229, only ten months after he had arrived in the Holy Land, Frederick II sailed home. In a fit of spite – and to ensure that they didn't violate the terms of his treaty – he first destroyed every weapon or piece of siege equipment that he could find. For their part, the citizens left no doubt what they thought of the emperor. The walk to his flagship was more like a hasty retreat than dignified procession. The entire way he had to endure catcalls while being pelted with manure and rotting animal intestines. 

It was a suitable end to a bizarre crusade. On the surface, Frederick had been remarkably successful. Against the opposition of most of Christendom, Outremer, and Islam, he had somehow talked himself into Jerusalem, accomplishing what no other crusade but the first one had. Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Nazareth were once again Christian cities. 

In every significant sense, however, these victories were meaningless. The crusade had never been about anything other than Frederick's personal goals, and he had been reckless in his pursuit of them. He left Outremer – like Jerusalem – deeply divided and virtually defenseless. 

The coronation he had struggled so hard for is unlikely to have brought him much comfort. Within a year, the soldiers he had left behind to look after his interests were fighting a full-blown civil war. Within a decade, Jerusalem, and any trace of Frederick's influence, was gone. 

The experience did no favors for his reputation either. He had arrived in the Levant deeply mistrusted and left, as a contemporary chronicler put it, 'hated, cursed, and vilified.' He had done irrevocable damage to the Christian cause, and gained nothing for it.