What on Earth Is a Crusade?
Daehan Year 3665, June 1202 AD — Venice
The command camp of the Fourth Crusade.
"How has this happened!"
"Haah..."
The knights had nothing to say. Of those who had pledged to come, many had quietly changed their minds along the way, and when the Count of Champagne — the man who was to serve as overall commander — died, his knights had gone and run off with their fortunes in tow. Some orders had even simply set off on their own to attack the Muslims.
Barely a third of the knights who were supposed to gather had actually shown up. Only about ten thousand had assembled.
It was little wonder that Enrico Dandolo, Doge of Venice, found his voice rising. After all, the Republic of Venice had spent a fortune gathering ships and men in good faith, trusting in their promises. What were they supposed to do about that?
"I apologize, Doge."
"Haah..."
They racked their brains together, but no clever solution presented itself.
It was then that a single place surfaced in Enrico's mind. The world's largest trading city — the one that had banned him from entry twenty-two years earlier, back in 1180, when he was fifty-eight years old. The incident that had cost Venice half of its revenue.
"Let us go to Mudo."
"Where is that?"
"You don't know Mudo, the world's greatest trading city?"
Enrico was startled that anyone could be unaware of the place.
"Ah — no, no. I know it well. I've even visited for pleasure before. They have everything there. The Suzhou silk, in particular, is magnificent."
"Do you have any idea how much tax revenue we'd command if we took that place?"
Enrico now dared to hope: perhaps they could resume trade with Mudo after all these years.
"But isn't that place defended by a nation called... Daehan?"
"They're locked in constant conflict with the Muslims to the south. Their forces guarding the western front can't be numerous."
If it came to it, he even considered slipping money to warlords in that region to goad them into launching an attack.
"If we do that, I'll gather not six thousand men, but twelve thousand."
"Hmm..."
Ten thousand knights and twelve thousand soldiers — that was undeniably a formidable force. But one rumor gnawed at them.
"Isn't it said that place is guarded by a demon of hell?"
"Do you actually believe that?"
"Of course I take it as the exaggeration of defeated men trying to bury their shame..."
"Then do you have some other plan?"
"Hmm..."
The truth was, the Crusaders had no other plan at all. So much for a holy war — they had come to win a war and pocket the spoils, nothing more.
And so, destination decided, they set out on a long sea voyage. Across the Adriatic, through the Aegean, and around to a stretch of the Black Sea coast — a full two months of sailing.
In the sweltering heat of August, they were fortunate to find a port built long ago by Venetian merchants who had run trade routes to and from Mudo, and there they rested briefly. They encountered a fortified wall along the way, but breached it in a mere five days, and their morale riding high, the Crusaders marched on until they reached their destination. It was October.
"What in the world is that?"
"A wall? What kind of..."
The walls of Mudo were not the problem. It was the even taller wall rising behind them. How on earth did one build something like that?
"Those braggarts from France and the Holy Roman Empire — weren't they telling the truth?"
"They say those people's weapons outrange even a trebuchet. At this distance, we should be safe, no?"
"More to the point, how exactly do you plan to attack?"
"..."
Even hauling a siege tower from here to there would be a nightmare of effort. That left ladders — the very method guaranteed to produce the heaviest casualties.
"Ha. Perhaps we should suggest surrender—"
"Please don't say something as ridiculous as offering to negotiate a surrender."
"What do we do, then..."
Still, having come this far, they could hardly give up so easily.
"Siege engines will be difficult. How about we charge with ladders?"
"We must, in the end?"
"We try once. If it fails, we turn back."
Even as they spoke of attacking, Enrico was reluctant. But then, what was he supposed to do about all the money already sunk into this venture?
"An envoy!"
A soldier's voice rang out from outside.
"An envoy, you say?"
"Could it be a surrender?"
The two men hurried outside. In the distance, a single rider was approaching on horseback, black hair fluttering in the wind.
Dug-dok. Dug-dok.
When the woman drew up before them, the two men — no, everyone who had joined the Crusade — found themselves struck speechless.
If a goddess truly existed, was she not standing right here before them? Was this not, in truth, holy ground?
"I have come because I have questions for you."
Her voice carried an unmistakable majesty.
"Please, speak."
"Yes..."
Before they knew it, both men had grown deferential.
"Are you not Crusaders?"
"That is correct."
"Then why are you here?"
"To exterminate the heathens and reclaim the Holy Land..."
"Is this the Holy Land? Where are these heathens supposed to be? Are the countless Christians living inside those walls heathens to you?"
Not a word of it was wrong. This was neither the Holy Land nor a place where Christians suffered persecution. It was simply the place their own greed had brought them to.
"..."
"..."
Even now, looking down on them, her face was beautiful — but her eyes were piercingly sharp, as if seeing straight through to the bottom of their hearts.
"Think carefully on what I have said. Leave this place by the day after tomorrow. Advance even a single step closer, and not one of you will survive."
She turned and rode away without waiting for an answer. She had come alone, a solitary figure before an army of thousands, yet she showed not a trace of intimidation — she brimmed with more dignity than anyone present.
If a true empress existed, it was her — the image burned itself into every mind there.
After she had gone—
"Enrico..."
Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, still clung to at least the barest conscience of a knight. But—
"What choice do we have?"
Enrico was, first and foremost, a merchant — the kind of man who would sell anything and everything, conscience included, so long as money was to be made.
"We have two days. Let us build the ladders."
"Enrico. Truly? We're going through with it?"
"Then shall we simply turn back as we are? We'd be walking home, mind you."
"Ah..."
The Crusaders had nothing but their bodies. If Venice withheld support, they wouldn't be able to eat properly from tomorrow, and they would have to make the return journey on foot.
They had no other way. None at all.
"You're back, Commander."
"Mm. They understood, I take it?"
They'd gotten thoroughly beaten about twenty years ago — had word not even reached them?
"Ah!"
"What is it?"
"They didn't hear again! Why on earth do these people keep coming here?"
I was supposed to have them hear it from their own mouths. Ugh, I forgot again.
"Keep an eye on what they're doing for now."
"Yes, ma'am."
The next day.
Are they insane? Why would they do this?
"They're building ladders?"
"Yes. Gathering wood with great enthusiasm and putting them together."
I thought my eyes were deceiving me.
I was quite sure I'd made myself understood. Next time I see them, I'm just going to open fire on sight.
I'd tried to handle things like a civilized person — send an envoy, take the message, talk it through — but there was really nothing left to say to them, was there?
These people are still primitives. Utterly uncivilized.
"Since siege engines are out of the question, it looks like they're building ladders to carry and rush the walls with, no?"
"Yes. Without a doubt."
"Then we'll fire the big guns from the back, and ready up One and Two at the front."
Today, or tomorrow?
Haha. Turns out I was a little off.
"They came at midnight? Well, someone used their head for once."
"Hmm, doesn't that make it hard to get support from the rear wall?"
"Not at all. We have armor — just light up the wall like broad daylight. A few arrows coming our way won't matter a bit. And whether we can see them or not, order everyone to fire blind over the top."
They'll take a hit or two and die on the way out. We've had our close-range weapons ready the whole time anyway.
"Understood!"
Those people really won't be able to make a living at all, will they?
And in an instant, fires began blazing along the ramparts. Soldiers in gleaming plate armor stood silhouetted against the light.
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom-thoom. Thoom. Thoom.
Mounted on the wall, the anti-personnel scatter cannons — Dialogue-One and Dialogue-Two — and the personal scatterguns, Negotiation-One, began to roar.
It was time for dialogue and negotiation.
"AAAAGH!"
"GRAAAH! It burns!"
"What is this?!"
"My arm!"
When soldiers hurled torches down at intervals, the vague silhouettes of men showed in the flickering light.
The Dialogue and Negotiation guns they were using were loaded with scatter shot — even fired carelessly, the pellets fanned out wide and swept everything away.
"Ha. Moths to a flame."
To those men, the firelight on our walls might as well have been a beckoning beacon — they charged toward it just like moths flying to their deaths.
Gu-gu-gung. Ku-dang-tang-tang.
Dialogue-Three and Dialogue-Four fired massive bolts as well, but they could also hurl solid cannonballs — iron spheres that bounced off the ground in plain view, plowing straight lines through the ranks of men.
From somewhere far beyond the reach of sight, the faint sounds of screams and metal clattering across the ground never ceased.
"What in the—!"
"We must retreat!"
"But—!"
"What 'but'?! Not a single man has even reached the wall!"
Where in the world had such weapons come from? A siege was utterly impossible.
"Everyone, retreat!"
Nobody heeded Enrico's counsel. The commander-in-chief, deciding there was no need to listen at all, ordered an immediate withdrawal. This was a battle not worth fighting.
Not one soldier could be seen drawing near that blazing wall. Were they truly to keep charging until the enemy's weapons broke down or ran dry? That would never do.
"Retreat!"
Puuuuung.
At the blare of the horns, the soldiers read the mood and hurriedly turned and began to run.
Kwa-kwang. Ku-kwang.
"What! They came all this way?"
They couldn't see a thing anyway, so the enemy seemed to be firing wildly at whatever lights still burned in the camp.
"There's no time to gather the supplies. Everyone, retreat!"
"What! You mean to abandon all of that?"
"Then risk your own neck and pack it up yourself!"
Enrico had no intention of laying down his life for the supplies either, but when he thought of all that money, his feet simply refused to carry him away. Even as he wrenched himself forward at last, one question gnawed at him: Why didn't I heed her warning? They had invoked the name of God without any righteous cause whatsoever — perhaps this punishment was Heaven's answer.
And so the Fourth Crusade was forced to flee for its life in the dead of night.
Dawn broke on a bitterly cold October morning.
"Heh heh... We're finished."
"We simply have to go back. We can't throw our lives away out here."
Enrico had all but lost his mind. Who knew how much in supplies they had left behind? No — counting what they'd carried this far, it might be quicker to tally what was left.
With hardly any provisions to speak of, they trudged back for another two grueling months until they reached the port, arriving as little better than beggars.
"Whew... What are we to do now...?"
"We've no choice but to return, don't we?"
"Ah! Wait — that's it!"
"You have a plan?"
"Let us go to Zara. A winter crossing is dangerous, but we can hardly stay here like this, can we?"
"Whatever for this time?"
What mad scheme was this man cooking up now? The Marquis of Montferrat felt a flicker of genuine dread.
"We shall take Zara. In return, I will extend your repayment period indefinitely."
"Good heavens..."
The knights already owed the Venetians eighty-five thousand marks in expedition costs — in other words, they were debtors. That was why they had been dragged along by the nose this whole time.
It was a holy war in the name of God on paper, but in truth they had come to scrape together money by any means necessary. One wrong step, and they could lose their very horses and armor — their entire fortunes — on the journey home.
"But... are the people of Zara not Christians?"
That was the problem. The whole justification for their gathering was the Crusade — an army recruited to fight the heathens, was it not?
"Then shall you go home?"
"Good heavens..."
And so they set out once more across the winter sea, the knightly orders and the Venetian fleet together, toward Zara near Venice. The treacherous crossing spared no one — the Venetians included — and a full third of them vanished into the icy waters of winter.
The siege of Zara, however, lasted a mere five days before the city fell. They even lined their purses with plunder...
The men, finally arrived in a city where they could at last rest, could feel nothing but hollow futility. What, exactly, had all that suffering over the past eight months been for?
They had won a city — but it was a victory of wounds, and nothing more.