Chapter 2: The People's Crusade

“The world is passing through troubling times.” 

– Peter the Hermit

For Pope Urban, the speech at Clermont was only the start of an exhausting year. The details of his 'great Christian army' hadn't been fleshed out beyond meeting at Constantinople and the goal of restoring Jerusalem. So he spent the better part of the year traveling through France and northern Italy, writing endless letters, preaching sermons, and completing plans for the crusade. Priests and bishops were deputized to spread the word further, and they proved just as successful as the pope had been. Many of them used imagery that powerfully appealed to the charged atmosphere. Christ's command to 'take up your cross' now resonated with a different meaning that was mixed with feudal themes of duty. Some preachers even resorted to showing images of the crucifixion with Turkish persecutors instead of Romans. The response was both immediate and widespread. By the time he returned to Rome, Urban had news that pilgrims as far apart as Scotland, Denmark and Spain had pledged to take the cross. 

The vast enthusiasm that greeted his idea seems to have alarmed more than delighted the pope. Urban was no romantic. He was acutely aware of the danger that Islam posed for Christendom, and knew that the greatest service he could render to the beleaguered East would be to send Europe's super weapon – the heavily armed knight. Peasant levies would be worse than useless. Not only would they be unable to finance such an expensive journey and most likely be slaughtered long before they reached Jerusalem, but they would deprive the West of the manpower needed to gather in the annual harvest. 

This last point weighed most heavily on his mind. In northern Italy, so many peasants heeded the call that there were genuine fears of a famine, and Urban was forced to switch tactics, actively trying to convince people not to join the crusade. Letters were sent clarifying that the great venture was intended only for the landed classes who could afford the material necessary for war. In order to give the nobility time to set their affairs in order, the official departure date was pushed to August 15, 1096, a full year in the future, and all potential crusaders were ordered to obtain the permission of their spiritual advisors first. To ensure the correct composition of the army, Urban instructed the clergy to refuse all but the most fit. Since the non-martial sections of society couldn’t materially aid the crusade, there were no spiritual benefits available to them. The old, sick, and young had to stay home, and the poor had responsibilities in the field. Clerics and monks were ordered to remain in their place to pray for the crusade (unless given specific permission to attend by the bishop), and Spaniards were expressly forbidden since their fight with Islam was at home.²⁶ Even those who qualified, if they were newly married, had to obtain permission from their wives first. 

On one level, it seems strange that Urban found it necessary to restrict attendance in his Crusade because the journey itself should have been enough to discourage most people. To get to Jerusalem by land it was necessary to walk between two and three thousand miles through hostile territory. What’s more, the nobility of Europe was surely aware of the level of opposition they faced. Many of them had spent time as mercenaries in the Byzantine army and knew first-hand how formidable the Turks were. Even more concerning was the prohibitive cost. Knights had to assemble funds to pay for their own journey and in some cases younger brothers or sons as well. In addition, they would need to fund an appropriate retinue – blacksmiths, squires, and servants – to take care of their needs en route. These funds could easily total five or six times their annual incomes, and most prospective crusaders sold off their estates or liquidated family holdings to cover them. Many knights depended on the largess of wealthier lords to make the trip at all. There was, of course, always the prospect of plunder along the way to recoup some of the costs, but this was a remote possibility at best. Urban had decreed that all captured territory would be restored to the Byzantine emperor intact, and the price for disregarding this – or for turning back early – was excommunication.²⁷ 

The First Crusade, in other words, meant impoverishing or severely draining family resources all for an unspecified number of years away and the very real possibility of death in a strange land. And yet, despite the risks involved, the crusade was outstandingly popular with the very people who had the most to lose. Worse still, the vast majority of them who reached Jerusalem returned deeply in debt, with neither riches nor land, and in many cases in poor health. 

The reason why so many people simply ignored Urban's restrictions was rooted in the medieval idea of piety. Faith – particularly among the nobility – was demonstrated by public display. Great lords built churches or patronized religious houses to offset lives frequently brutal and bloody. By defending the church at home or abroad at great personal cost, they believed they were gaining rich heavenly rewards. 

Mixed in with this, of course, were all the reasons why men join great enterprises – from the genuine idealism of joining a cause greater than themselves to the basest of motivations. All of them, however, were united in their willingness to risk everything to liberate the Holy Land. 

Urban had unwittingly tapped into a deep reservoir of emotion that quickly escaped his control. He had intended a small, disciplined force of knights to march to the defense of the East, but the first army that left for Jerusalem was none of those things. The call of Clermont may have tugged at the conscience of the nobility, but its pull was far stronger for the peasants. Life in north-western Europe for the poor was, in Thomas Hobbes’ words, 'nasty, brutish, and short'. The Viking raids, which had wracked Europe from the ninth to the eleventh century, had left much of the land spoiled. Fields remained uncultivated, bridges and dykes neglected, and villages underpopulated. As central order had broken down, there had been no one to protect the peasants from the abuses of local lords. To add to the general suffering the years leading up to Urban's speech had been particularly hard. 1094 saw terrible flooding in the south of France followed by swarms of insects and disease. The next year there were severe droughts and widespread famine that increased the already high mortality rate. 

Urban's message of a great march to the Holy Land offered an escape from the unrelenting misery of this life, and it held out the tantalizing promise of salvation in the next one. Signs and wonders confirmed the momentous news. In the north of France it was recorded that the moon was eclipsed twice, while in the south a great shower of meteorites was seen. Some who had pledged to go on crusade reported a burning image of the cross on their flesh, while others who were reluctant were struck down with the painful seizures and swollen limbs of the disease popularly known as St. Anthony's fire.

Peter of Amiens

Urban had asked only the bishops to preach the crusade, but the countryside of France and the Rhineland was soon swamped with humble monks and itinerant preachers spreading the news. The most important and effective of these unofficial messengers was a man by the name of Peter. He was born near Amiens in Picardy, and though not particularly handsome – his face was often compared unfavorably to the donkey he always rode – he had a strange charisma. "Whatever he did or said,” wrote the monk Guibert of Nogent who knew him, "it seemed half divine." Crowds who listened to him speak were frequently reduced to tears, a phenomenon which continued even when Peter reached Germany where his audiences couldn't understand a word he said. 

He attracted attention from all classes and was frequently given huge sums of money by local nobility. Most of this he gave away, paying off his follower's debts or providing dowries for poor women, which only increased his prestige. Before long, crowds were plucking the hairs off his donkey to keep as relics. 

Peter himself cut quite a curious figure. Always barefoot, he ate no bread or meat, surviving almost exclusively on a pescatarian diet of wine and fish. His only distinguishing garment was a filthy cape that gave him the nickname 'the Hermit'. What separated him from his contemporary preachers, however, was a certain patina of experience that came through in his speeches. Two years before, in 1093, he had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but had been beaten so badly by the Turks that he was forced to turn back without seeing Jerusalem. This gave his words a certain gravitas – direct knowledge of the actual situation in the east – as well as a sense of urgency.²⁸ There was a common medieval belief that Jerusalem would be in Christian hands when Christ returned, and clearly the end of days was at hand. The nobility, many of whom were busily getting their estates in order for the crusade, were lampooned for a lack of faith. The call had been issued and Christ alone – not careful planning or expensive retinues – would guarantee victory. 

Peter spent the summer of 1095 preaching what historians call the People's Crusade throughout northeastern France. By the time he crossed into Germany, his following had swelled to fifteen thousand, and the scale of what he was attempting to achieve began to dawn on him. It was one thing to inspire people to action but quite another to organize them. His followers came from many backgrounds, but nearly all were poor, and many had brought their entire families – including women, children and animals. Mixed among them were those who were looking for a fresh start; thieves, criminals, and junior members of knightly households without any prospects. They had nothing in common other than their desire to go on crusade, and more closely resembled a mob than an army. 

Peter was caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, he had to find some way to attract the more capable noble elements to stiffen his forces, but on the other he was forced to constantly move. Few places in medieval Europe could afford to feed an extra fifteen thousand people for long, particularly undisciplined ones. When he reached the major German city of Cologne, therefore, nestled in a wealthy area with the Rhine River for easy communication, he saw his chance and paused. 

If Urban's original vision of an elite military force had been mutated by men like Peter the Hermit into a popular movement, in Germany it spun completely out of control. As word of the People's Crusade spread, splinter groups began to form led by increasingly bizarre figures. One group of peasants even followed around a goose that they claimed was inspired by the Holy Spirit.²⁹ While these groups were mocked by more sober crusaders – the priest, Albert of Aix, called them stupid and irresponsible, and their efforts ‘an abominable wickedness’ – much worse was to follow. 

Jews in Medieval Europe

The Jews had always occupied an ambiguous place in medieval Christian Europe. They were both the Chosen People of the Old Testament and the people who had specifically rejected Jesus. While official Church doctrine taught that the sins of every human were responsible for Christ's death, it was popularly believed that the Jews were particularly at fault. They were referred to as 'Christ-killers' and their treatment varied from suspicion to outright persecution. 

The same things that allowed them to survive with their culture intact – their distinctive clothing, religious ceremonies, dietary laws, reluctance to intermarry and refusal to assimilate – also ensured that they were easy targets as outsiders. This volatile situation was made worse by the limited occupations that they were allowed to pursue. Since Christians were barred from money lending – which was seen as unscrupulous – it was almost exclusively conducted by Jews. This led to considerable ill-will as Christians fell into debt to those they considered their social inferiors. Over the centuries there were sporadic attempts to drive them out of certain countries or force their conversions. 

One of the areas where Jews had found a measure of security was the Holy Roman Empire where they were protected by the crown. In the summer of 1096, however, with men like Peter the Hermit urging action against the enemies of Christ, these flourishing communities in Germany became the targets of angry mobs. 

The most notorious of the anti-Jewish 'crusaders' was an odious count named Emicho of Leiningen. A minor noble from the Rhineland, Emicho had spent his time robbing merchants and other travelers who wandered into his territory. Shortly after hearing Peter the Hermit speak, he claimed that Christ had appeared to him in a dream. He was commanded to go to Constantinople where he would overthrow the current authorities and take the title of 'Last Roman Emperor'. From there he would march to Jerusalem, throw out the Muslims and usher in the end of the world. 

Emicho managed to attract a large following – mostly knights with reputations nearly as bad as his own – and went on a killing spree, attacking Jewish communities along the Rhine from Cologne to Speyer. His primary motivation seems to have been gold. After all, what better way to fund his mission than to take it from the despised Jews? Both clerical and secular authorities were horrified. The emperor ordered all Jewish communities in the empire protected, and many local bishops tried their best to enforce the decree, but they were equally defenseless against the mob. In the southwestern German city of Worms, the bishop announced that the Jews were under his personal protection, but Emicho attacked them anyway, killing more than eight hundred. 

When he reached Mainz, the bishop forbade him from entering the city, and the Jewish community raised a large sum of gold to bribe him to go away. Emicho accepted the money and then let his followers into the city anyway. In a last ditch effort to save the Jews of Mainz, the bishop hid many of them in his lightly fortified palace, while the Christian merchants organized a militia to fight off Emicho's men. While they were able to push back the first few attacks, the sheer numbers soon overwhelmed them. 

Emicho's men stormed the bishop's palace, easily forcing their way inside and slaughtered everyone who wouldn't submit to baptism, regardless of age or gender. The terrified Jews began to commit suicide, preferring – as one chronicler wrote – death by their own hands than the weapons of the uncircumcised. 

To justify their actions, Emicho's followers trotted out the idea of the Christ-killer, arguing that before reaching the Holy Land, their first duty was to cleanse the imperial cities. As one of his soldiers explained to a rabbi, "You are the children of those who killed the object of our veneration," but these arguments were explicitly rejected by the Church. "By some error of the mind" wrote Albert of Aix, "they rose against the Jewish people... (but) the Lord is a just judge and orders no one unwillingly or under compulsion to come under the yoke of the Catholic faith."

Even at the time, the atrocities committed by Emicho and his ilk were condemned as perversions, and medieval chroniclers noted with satisfaction that none of the anti-Jewish 'crusades' ever made it to the east. Most collapsed as soon as they met local resistance, or were suppressed by imperial authorities. Count Emicho made it the farthest. He managed to ransack his way to the Danube, but when he entered Hungary and attempted to plunder the countryside for food, his increasingly disorganized force was crushed by the Hungarian army. 

Walter Sans-Avoir

Back in Cologne, news of smaller groups heading east divided Peter the Hermit's army. They had left everything behind to win back Jerusalem, but instead had been sitting around a foreign city that was growing increasingly tired of the excess population. Peter, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He was finally attracting significant numbers of German nobles, and wanted to increase the strength of the army. 

The most enthusiastic of Peter's followers decided they couldn't wait any longer and split off from the main force. They were led by Walter Sans-Avoir, one of the few minor French lords who had followed Peter. Walter's surname is often rendered in English as 'Penniless'³⁰ but he was far from poor. In fact, Walter was the lord of a region in the Île-de-France just to the west of Paris, who had started out with eight attending knights and a small company of foot soldiers. 

Leading a group by now several thousand strong, Walter followed the Rhine to the Danube and reached the Hungarian border by early May, 1096. He managed to keep good order among his followers and was granted safe passage and supplies by the king of Hungary. All went well until they reached Belgrade, the border between Hungary and the Byzantine empire. As they waited to be ferried across the river Save into imperial territory, sixteen of Walter's men tried to rob a bazaar in the neighboring city of Semlin, but were captured by the local militia. All things considered, they escaped lightly. Their weapons and clothes were hung on the walls as a warning, and the naked but unharmed men were sent back to Walter. 

That should have ended the affair, but instead it escalated it. The humiliated crusaders decided to pillage the countryside, and the annoyed locals decided to fight back. Walter's disorganized rabble had the worst of it, with several of his men being burned alive in a church where they had taken refuge. Thankfully, before tensions could escalate further, the Byzantine emperor hurried supplies to Belgrade along with a military escort to prevent further mischief. 

The emperor's generosity was motivated in part by the knowledge that Peter the Hermit's far larger group was only a few weeks behind. Their journey hadn't been easy. Peter's crusaders had failed to bring enough supplies with them, apparently under the impression that locals would be happy to contribute whatever they needed in view of their holy endeavor. When this generosity failed to materialize, the crusaders began to take what they wanted by force, moving from petty robbery to outright pillaging. 

Serious trouble began when Peter reached Semlin where the clothing of Walter's men still hung from the walls. The governor of the city tried to tighten up security but in the charged atmosphere an argument over a pair of shoes escalated into a pitched battle. After sacking the city thoroughly, Peter's army crossed into Byzantine territory and attacked Belgrade. This turned out to be a serious mistake. There were imperial forces in the area that had been tasked with escorting the crusaders to Constantinople. When Peter’s army attacked Belgrade, the Byzantine troops converged on them, easily scattering the disorganized crusaders.

The disaster was nearly the end of the People's Crusade. Peter the Hermit fled with five hundred men up a nearby mountainside believing that everyone else had been killed. Only in the morning, when seven thousand survivors had straggled in, did he realize that the defeat hadn't been fatal. 

Thanks to a large imperial escort, and the lesson of humility that went along with losing both the treasury and a quarter of the men, the rest of the journey to Constantinople was without incident. The Byzantine guides kept them well supplied and under close watch, and thanks to their enforced good behavior, local attitudes became noticeably warmer. Many were moved to tears at the sight of the army – some of whom were in rags – and donated money, horses, or mules. 

Morale was improved when they reached Constantinople where they were rejoined by Walter Sans-Avoir's group and several other small groups that had trickled in. Their entrance into the city was closely restricted, but as a sign of imperial favor the emperor Alexius invited Peter to meet with him to discuss strategy in the imperial palace.³¹ 

Constantinople

The sight of the imperial capital must have been overwhelming for the crusaders. Unlike western cities that were relatively small, Constantinople boasted a population of nearly a million.³² It was the physical and spiritual center of the fabled Roman Empire, a still vibrant survivor of the ancient world. Its emperor was a direct successor of Augustus, and its citizens still roared to the delights of the Hippodrome as their ancestors had. It was, particularly to medieval eyes, a place of wonders. 

The great land walls, the most formidable defensive fortifications ever constructed, were crossed by nine main gates, the most famous of which was the ceremonial Golden Gate. It was a vast Roman triumphal arch with three large doors, white marble lined with bronze and gold and surmounted with statues of elephants pulling a victorious chariot. Everywhere the eye looked there were splendid mosaics and breathtaking works of art from the vanished world of antiquity. Far more impressive than the gleaming palaces and exotic wares, however, was the city's vast collection of relics. Nearly every church held the clothes or bones of a saint, and over the centuries pious emperors had collected an unrivaled collection of the venerated items of the Christian world. A pilgrim to the city could find anything from the mundane – the tools used by Noah to build the Ark and the swaddling clothes of Christ – to the more exotic – vials of Christ's blood or the Virgin's breast milk. 

The most precious of these were housed in a special palace chapel or exhibited in the city's greatest cathedral, the Hagia Sophia. There was no building like it in the world. In an age of dark, heavy architecture, the Church of Divine Wisdom rose in graceful, bright lines. A worshiper who entered through its enormous imperial door – a gateway encrusted with silver whose lintel was supposedly made from the wood of Noah's ark – would gaze in wonder at the walls made of multi-chromed marble imported from all over the Mediterranean world, and the vast interior space. The massive central dome rose eighteen stories above the ground, and the ceiling was covered with four acres of gold mosaic.³³ Around the base of the dome, the builders had placed windows lined with gold. As light flooded into the building, this made it appear as if the dome itself were floating on a sea of light. 

There were few who could enter such a space and remain unmoved. When a visiting Russian delegation heard a mass inside the cathedral they famously wrote back to their monarch, "We knew not whether we were in heaven or on earth."³⁴ 

The emperor Alexius I was well aware of the power that the imperial trappings could inspire, and he made full use of it to both intimidate and flatter his guests. Peter was taken to the Great Palace – a sprawling complex of buildings covering more than four and a half acres – and there the impoverished itinerant preacher came face to face with the Eastern Roman emperor. As Peter entered the octagonal hall of the Chrysotriklinos – literally the 'golden reception room' – his eyes would have been drawn to the great imperial throne framed by a monumental icon of Christ as divine judge with his hand raised in a gesture of blessing or command. Equally impressive was a marvelous tree of gilded bronze with jeweled songbirds in its branches and two golden lions crouched at the foot of the throne. At the touch of a lever the birds would burst into song and the lions stand and roar, an effect that usually produced a mix of wonder and fear. 

Under normal circumstances, such surroundings would be intimidating enough, but Peter was particularly susceptible because he was uncertain of exactly what to do next. In France and Germany the immediate goals had been obvious. The 'great Christian army' would gather and march to Jerusalem. But the actual plans for getting to the Holy Land were still up in the air. Urban had issued no concrete details other than a vague instruction for everyone to meet at Constantinople. Peter either had to wait for more armies to arrive and risk frustrating his men or cross into enemy territory immediately. 

For his part, the emperor Alexius was less than thrilled with the arrival of the People's Crusade. When news had first reached him that a 'crusade' was on its way, he had been horrified. He had asked for some mercenaries to stiffen his armies, but now was facing a motley horde that was clearly not even under the control of its own leaders. After reports of the sheer numbers on the move, the emperor's daughter, the historian Anna Comnena wrote in alarm that 'all the tribes of the west... were moving in a body towards Asia'. 

The first sight of Peter's group did nothing to alleviate the emperor's concern. Although apparently impressed by Peter's holiness, Alexius correctly realized that the rabble he had brought with him stood no chance against the Turks. Using his famous charm, the emperor convinced Peter that his only hope lay in waiting for the proper armies to arrive. 

This was sound advice, but unfortunately Peter's influence over the crusade had been waning for some time, and he no longer had effective control. The rank and file soldiers saw the wait in Constantinople as intolerable, a betrayal of their mandate to liberate Jerusalem. The obvious wealth around them seemed an additional insult. They were fighting the good fight on behalf of these soft eastern Christians, weren't they entitled to some sort of compensation? At first they were content with petty thefts but they quickly moved on to outright pillaging, breaking into the palaces and villas of the suburbs, and even stealing the lead from the roofs of churches. Within six days of their arrival, Alexius' patience was exhausted. The crusaders were given money and supplies, advised to stick to the coasts where the imperial navy could resupply them, and ferried across to Asia Minor. 

Disintegration

Despite having landed in Asia, the crusaders weren't yet in enemy territory. Byzantium still owned a thin strip of the coast and the locals could reasonably be expected to act as advisors and guides. Peter, however, either failed to inform his soldiers of this or more likely simply couldn't control them. The only thing everyone could agree on was that they should go east, so the crusade began a disorganized march along the Asiatic shore, pillaging homes and churches as they went. The shambling advance thoroughly terrified the local Christians, who mostly tried to stay out of the way, and without guides, violent arguments started to erupt over which direction to go. 

Tensions reached boiling point when they reached the ruins of Nicomedia, present-day Izmit, an imperial city still deserted from a Turkish sack a decade and a half before. Here the crusade shattered along ethnic lines: the Germans elected their own leaders while the French – rather reluctantly – stuck with Peter the Hermit. 

At this point Peter finally began to show sensible leadership. While the Germans busied themselves in stripping the countryside of supplies, further poisoning relations with local Christians, Peter led the French south along the coast. His destination was a fortified village called Civetot roughly twenty miles from Nicomedia, which had been stocked with supplies by Alexius.³⁵ Strategically located in a fertile plain on the Gulf of Nicomedia, it would provide safety and an easy access to the sea. There they could dig in and wait for reinforcements to arrive from Constantinople. 

Unfortunately this reasonable plan only served to undercut Peter's authority. Where had the fiery preacher who had blasted the nobility for their lack of faith gone? How had he become this trembling coward who bowed to emperors and kept urging caution? As if to confirm everyone's worst suspicions, within a few weeks Peter announced that he was returning to the capital to confer with the emperor about what to do next. 

In his absence, a competition began with the Germans to see who could gather the most loot. In the early fall, a group of French knights managed to get as far as the gates of Nicaea, present-day Iznik, the capital of the local Turkish emirate. 

Nicaea was an important city for Christians. Almost eight centuries before, it had hosted the first great gathering of the Church. Presided over by Constantine the Great, the Council of Nicaea had weighed in on matters as important as episcopal elections to setting the appropriate date to celebrate Easter. Even more symbolically, Nicaea was largely responsible for the statement of faith that every good crusader knew by heart.³⁶ 

Over the years the city had become wealthy, a condition that continued when it became the Turkish capital a decade before the First Crusade. When the French knights arrived, therefore, they found a rich countryside with a scattering of villages and towns outside the walls. Even better, Kilij Arslan, the Turkish emir, was away dealing with a rebellion at the other end of his territory. The crusaders weren't numerous enough to try a siege of the city, so they set to work plundering the countryside with appalling savagery.³⁷ When the Turkish garrison of Nicaea sallied out to stop them, the crusaders managed to rout them. 

The French returned to Civetot brimming with loot and confidence, and were soon boasting about their exploits. The Germans, not to be outdone, marched further inland where they discovered an abandoned castle that could be used as a base for further raiding. At first, all went well. The Germans had marched with more care than the French, and by refraining from attacking the local Christians, had ensured less resistance. 

Unfortunately, however, news of the previous French attacks had spread to the emir and he had swiftly returned with his army. The Germans retreated to their castle, only to discover that they had made a serious miscalculation. Although they had plenty of food, the only water source was from a small stream, well outside of the walls of the fortress. The Turkish army immediately began a siege, and within a few days, the Germans were in agony. 

Desperate for water, the crusaders attempted to suck the moisture from clumps of earth. Others cut the veins of their horses and donkeys for the blood or drank each other's urine. After eight days of torment, the German commander surrendered on the condition that he would convert to Islam. His men were given the same choice. Those who converted were hauled off into slavery, the rest were slaughtered. 

Kilij Arslan made the most of his victory. He forged a letter to the French from the Germans boasting that they had taken Nicaea and captured a vast amount of loot. He then positioned his army just outside Civetot and waited. 

The letter had the desired effect, but before the French could go charging off to share in the glory, news of the real disaster trickled in. The excited atmosphere turned to panic, and for several hours there was chaos as no one figure could gain control. Eventually Walter Sans-Avoir managed to restore order, but opinion was split between waiting for Peter to return with reinforcements and marching out immediately to avenge the Germans. After several days of hesitating, the decision was made to advance. 

The crusaders left the camp with everyone who was able, leaving behind only the women and children to take care of those who were too sick or old to fight. They numbered close to twenty thousand, but were hardly an impressive force. They moved in a disorganized line, without an advance guard or even scouts to warn them of what was ahead. Three miles from Civetot they blundered into the Turkish ambush. The fight, if it can be called that, was over within minutes. Those who weren't killed outright, fled back to their camp. 

At Civetot, most of those remaining in the camp were still asleep. The few priests who had stayed behind were just starting the morning mass when a great cloud of dust was seen rising from the direction the crusaders had marched. Before most of the breakfast fires had been lit, a great mass of terrified refugees came screaming into the camp. On their heels was the Turkish army. In such conditions there could be no real resistance. The old and sick were slaughtered in their beds, the priests as they were saying their prayers. The most attractive boys and girls were spared, to be sent to the slave markets of Baghdad. 

The only survivors were three thousand knights who were able to reach an old castle on the shore. The doors and windows had decayed long ago, but the desperate crusaders managed to plug them with corpses and salvaged driftwood. Somehow – without food or water – they managed to hold out until word of the disaster reached Alexius. He immediately alerted the imperial navy and, at the sight of the warships sailing into Civetot's harbor, the besieging Turks fled. 

The pitiful remnants of the People's Crusade limped back to Constantinople where they found their one-time leader, Peter the Hermit, waiting for them. It must have been a poignant reunion. Most of those he knew – including Walter Sans-Avoir – lay among the unnumbered dead at Civetot. They had set out to conquer the Holy Land, assured that their passion would see them through. Now they lay huddled in one of Constantinople's harbors, at the mercy of a foreign monarch, all their grand dreams broken. Peter himself still had a part to play, but the ultimate fate of his soldiers was fitting enough. The emperor Alexius generously gave them quarters in the suburbs of the great city and accepted them as citizens. 

First, however, he made sure to confiscate their weapons.