The Battle of Manzikert 1071 | Part Three: Emperor's Folly

Hey everyone, what's going on? Welcome back to Anthology of Heroes, where we share inspiring
stories of figures and events that change world history.
This is the final episode of a three-part series telling the lead-up to the 1071 Battle
of Manzacurt. This battle is a big deal. The fallout from it was immense, beginning the
Eastern Roman Empire's decline and transforming Anatolia's ethnic makeup from Orthodox
Greeks to Sunni Turks. In our first episode, we covered the spiralling state of affairs
in Eastern Rome, also known as Byzantium. Weak, cowardly emperors bloated civil servants
and a heavy reliance on foreign mercenaries. In the second episode, we covered the rise
of the Seljuks. Under Alpastlan's uncle Turgrul, we saw the band of unruly stepparchers
transformed into something like an empire. In this episode, we cover the battle itself.
The Romanus IV is just about to march out for the biggest Eastern campaign the empire
has seen for decades. With him is everything the weak in Roman state could muster. Men from
all over the empire siege weapons gold, Romanus had bet everything on a win, and it was time
to go big or go home. Alpastlan, the Seljuk leader, is about to be caught completely off-guard.
Accustomed to weak Roman emperors, he didn't anticipate facing such a large force in response
to his raids. And so here we are now, at the Nexus. The big battle both sides knew
was coming. If you haven't already, I'd recommend listening to episode one and two
so you've got the backstory. But if you're just here for the battle and you don't really
care about that stuff, then crank the volume knob and settle in. Let's get going.
The 1071 Man's Kurt Disaster, part three, Empress Folly.
Right, so we have tracked through a lot of history here, so let's just recap on our
main characters. We've got the current emperor of the Romans, or Byzantines, Romanus IV.
We've got the Sultan of the Seljuks, Alpastlan. We've got the Dukids, or the Dukas family,
the current ruling dynasty that Romanus married into. And we have the Kom Nemnoi, another
very influential dynasty that Romanus was trying to tie himself to. We also have Andronicus
Dukas, an army captain with a strong dislike of Romanus and how he muscled his way onto
the throne. And Robert Crispin, a Norman adventurer who had already once raised the flag of rebellion
against Romanus and was currently imprisoned by him. Got it? Cool, let's go.
Preparations began for a huge expedition to the eastern borderlands of the Empire, with
the likes of which hadn't been seen in decades. A good old Roman show of force. From Constantinople
marched everything Emperor Romanus IV could assemble. Small groups of Varangians and a
handful of household guards made up the cream of the crop. Next came his group of Pechniks,
half-wild horse archers whose trustworthiness extended only as far as they could be seen.
Trailing behind them were their nomadic cousins, the Ogres, Turkmen nomads from the Black Sea,
testing their bows and muttering to each other in their fro-and-tongue. Then came the Norman
knights, both horse and man covered in flowing coats of chainmail exuding an aura of martial
prowess. Behind them marched the Germans, stout and disciplined soldiers known for their strict
military training and adherence to orders. Following closely were Bulgarians, Armenians
and Anatolians, each with their own loyalties and motivations, making for a diverse and uncertain
force. Each man was burdened with two months of supplies, a necessity given the ravages
that Anatolia had been subjected to. In total, about 40,000 men comprised this rag-tag mixed
bag of an army. Gold was the only thing keeping them united. A contemporary said of this army,
quote, they were in a miserable condition and unprepared. They had been driven to the absolute
depths of misery and appeared cowardly, feeble and absolutely useless for anything brave.
They're very standard silently proclaimed this, for they looked filthy as if exposed to smoke,
and those who marched under them were few and pitiful. Despite their miserable conditions,
Romanus had spared no expense to assemble this diverse group of men. This was everything Rome had.
So short on cash was he that many imperial salaries had to be paid in silk rather than gold.
He had even relinquished the last Byzantine hold in Italy to bolster his forces.
Under extreme pressure for a decisive victory, Romanus knew that returning with anything less
could spell his demise. Court rivals would have his assassination arranged before he even made it
back to the gates. Accompanying him were many mighty siege engines ready for cities that
refused to surrender. Romanus knew that he'd probably never assemble an army this big again
and had to be prepared for every situation. At the head of the army alongside the emperor,
trodded a throng of tactician secretaries and generals. Among them were four notable figures,
Nicephorus Brianius, a veteran soldier and renowned tactician, Theodore Alialtis,
an esteemed Roman general and old friend of the emperor, the Norman Robert Crispin who Romanus
had released on the condition that he accompanied him on campaign, and finally Andronicus Ducus,
a princeling of the Ducus clan who Romanus had elevated to the trusted rank of rearguard commander.
When word reached our pass line of the colossal army heading right for him,
the sultan was campaigning in Syria, wearing down Byzantine borderfords and stomping down
disloyal amirs. Spies and envoys soon arrived to the emperor and reported an erratic and
panicked Seljuk chief well in over his head. The sultan was trembling with fear, they said.
His army in disarray and his focus consumed by events unfolding back in Syria. The image
presented to Romanus was that of a confused and scared Turkic chieftain now facing more
heat than he'd ever imagined, and these initial reports along with subsequent ones planted the
seeds of a dangerous overconfidence within Romanus. Looking back on the endless lines of his army
marching behind him, he started to believe himself invulnerable, a fatal mistake that would ultimately
lead to his downfall. Guys this is where I would usually cut to an ad but instead I wanted to
share with you a really fantastic podcast I've been listening to. It's called Cost of Glory
and it's hosted by Alex Petkes, a former professor of ancient philosophy and history
who now uses his talents to bring to life some of the most interesting stories from the ancient
world. Cost of Glory covers the rise of Sulla, Rome's first real dictator, and the reign of
Pyrrhus, one of Rome's most enduring foes, but my favorite was the episode on Pompey Magnus,
the late great unsung hero of the Roman Republic. Just like I do, Alex utilizes all the sources he
can find to bring figures like Pompey to life. It's a great show and well worth listening,
so after the credits roll for this episode, I'm going to include a five-minute extract so you
can see if you like it. If you do, check out all other Cost of Glory episodes on wherever you get
your podcasts, I'll also drop a link in the episode description. But for now, back to the Seljuks.
Arb Arslan had some big decisions to make and he had to make them quick.
When he had ignored the emperor's demands to control his Turkmen, he never believed that the
Romans would make good on their threat. Truth be told, he didn't think the empire had it in them,
but there could be no doubt. His scouts reported an enormous army with many siege weapons steadily
marching east. Led by the Roman emperor himself, there could be no doubt that this was a serious
invasion force. Everything Arb Arslan and Tokrull had built could be lost in the blink of an eye.
It was going to be tough, but the Sultan had to return to the heartland and regroup before he
could confront the emperor in battle. Dismissing the majority of his army, Arb Arslan and 4,000
of his best warriors raced east. There wasn't much time. Spring was already upon them and as
they neared the banks of the fast-flowing Euphrates River, it was swollen with thawed snow.
Spurring his horses into the frigid stream, the Sultan urged his men forward. Over the course
of his life, he had faced insurmountable odds, but he knew this next month would be his greatest
challenge. Emerging from the other side of the river, the animals shook themselves dry as they
climbed into the uplands. The roaring River Tigris now lay before them. The Sultan would have chosen
any route instead of this one, but there were no other options. If Ramana's siege weapons reached
his realm, it was all over. Spurring his horse into the rapids, perhaps the Sultan muttered a
prayer to the Almighty as he clung desperately to the beast, ignoring the screams of pack animals and
men behind him who were washed away in the current. Wasting no time, the sodden horse arch just
climbed further into the narrow passes. It was a shortcut home, but a dangerous one. The mountain
passes were home to innumerable Kurdish tribesmen known to be incredibly territorial. But through
luck and charisma, the Sultan managed to befriend many of these men. Promising extensive riches
for victory, many Kurds joined the Sultan for the upcoming battle. While the Sultan raced through
the mountain pass, his trusty governor, Nizamul Mulk, mustered men from every corner of his realm.
According to Islamic legend, when Nizamul Mulk inspected the troops, he noticed a little
pipsqueak of a man who'd answered the call for jihad. Short, scrawny, and without proper armor,
this guy was more suited to cleaning stables and fighting. Al Mulk's advisors laughed, saying,
get rid of him, he's so puny, he'll do more harm than good. But Al Mulk joked, quote,
what can be expected of him? Will he then bring captive Tuis, the Roman emperor?
The man was allowed to stay, and Al Mulk's words would turn out to be prophetic.
Ragged but alive, Al Pastlan, his household guard and a handful of Kurdish warriors,
arrived back at the fertile crescent to inspect his freshly mustered army. The final count was
around 30,000 men, including 15,000 elite horse archers. Nizamul Mulk is truly the unsung hero
of the story. Al Pastlan didn't know if it would be enough, but time was up. The Sultan declared
himself a Ghazi, a warrior of God whose upcoming battle was fought for Allah rather than himself.
As prayers for the Sultan rang out across the Abbasid Caliphate, the emperor's mood
had soured during the long trek east. The challenges of leading a multi-ethnic army had surfaced on
several occasions. His German mercenaries were accused of stealing supplies from local Greeks,
so the emperor stripped them of their position of honour beside him. Later, as they reached an
Armenian colony, Greek settlers informed the emperor that these particular Armenians had
sided with the Seljuks during a recent raid. A fight broke out and Ramana stormed through
the Armenian colony, trashing the village. According to an eyewitness, he raged, quote,
When I finish battling against these Persians, I shall do away with the Armenian faith.
Not a nice thing to hear as an Armenian serving in his army. Withdrawn and sullen,
the emperor said several generals and their armies back to Constantinople,
fearing he couldn't trust them. The only good news for the emperor came from his scouts,
who reported that Al-Paslan had fled back to Iran and left only a token force behind.
As the Romans neared Lake Van, far west, modern Turkey, Ramana's got to work splitting his army
up. There was a lot to do in one campaign, and seeing that Manzikert itself was lightly defended,
he sent the majority of his forces under Robert Crispin to besiege the key fortress of Arlat,
while he bought Manzikert to heal. Once they saw the emperor's catapults lining up at the city,
the Seljuk governor of Manzikert surrendered the city without a fight.
Before the garrison had even been disarmed, the emperor surveyed the city,
much to the alarm of his counselors, who pointed out that he was defenseless if an enemy soldier
rushed in with a knife. But Ramana's felt better than he had in years. This strategic fortress had
fallen even faster than he predicted. Soon, all of Anatolia and Armenia would be pacified again.
According to Islamic sources, the emperor even began nominating governors for the regions he
hadn't yet conquered. Letters of congratulations and offers of alliance came in from the Fatimid
Caliphate, who were desperate for friends in their war against Al-Paslan. But words soon
reached the emperor of Seljuk troops spotted in the area. Still believing that the Sultan had
fled to Iran, Ramana assumed this was the rearguard his scouts had warned him about. The idea that the
Sultan had retreated mustered a new army and doubled back in such a short time never struck
Ramana's. Now, cut off from the majority of his army, the emperor didn't realize that his divided
forces were now facing the full Seljuk army. The emperor sent forward his tactician, Bryanius,
to deal with the Seljuk rearguard. But Bryanius soon sent back a call for help. The force he
encountered was much larger than what he initially thought. Still not grasping that this was the
main Seljuk body, Ramana sent forth another detachment under a local commander. This guy
fell for the age-old trick, chasing the supposedly fleeing Turks all the way back to their camp.
Once the Roman lines lost their cohesion, the group swung around and captured him.
Ramana himself then sallied out and tried to salvage the situation, but by the time he arrived,
the Seljuks were nowhere to be found. As the afternoon sun set, a horrible realization set in
for the emperor. He was facing the full strength of the Seljuk army, alone. Finally grasping that
this was Alp Arslan in the flesh, the emperor sent out an order recalling Robert Crispin and the bulk
of his forces he'd sent to take the fortress of Alat. Little did he know Alp Arslan had sent
reinforcements and had already chased off the Romans. Crispin and about two-thirds of the Roman
total force had already been routed and were now long gone. Some historians speculate whether
Ramana's had already become a victim of treachery by this point. After their failure to take Alat,
why hadn't these soldiers returned to the emperor? Given Crispin's past actions as possible he
accepted a payment from the sultan to sit out the upcoming battle. Either way, the Romans spent a
sleepless night barricaded in their makeshift fort as the Turks howled like demons firing arrows
into their palisade all night long. When the sun rose, the Seljuks had repositioned themselves
blocking their access to the river and fresh water. Worse still, over the course of the night
several groups of Oglu's Turks had defected and now joined their nomadic brothers on the
opposite side of the field. Proving their mettle, Ramana's and his Romans charged out of the
battered palisade and forced the Seljuks back into retreat, recapturing their access to fresh
water. They were not beaten yet. Despite this unfortunate turn of events, Ramana's was still
confident in the troops he had on hand. He had already decided to give battle. The only decision
was to whether to wait for Crispin and his Normans to return first. As the emperor deliberated on his
next move, envoys from the sultan arrived at his fortified camp. The leader of the delegation was
a man the emperor knew well. He was an Islamic judge that had visited Constantinople regularly on
behalf of the Abbasid Caliphate. Ramana's had always treated him with kindness. With a broad
smile, the wise and judged approached the emperor as he'd done many times before, but he immediately
knew something was different. The envoy opened with an earnest request for peace. He claimed that
the sultan had no wish for battle and that surely they could agree upon a solution that would bring
peace and happiness to both peoples. This was probably a legitimate request. Anatolia had always
been a sideshow for Al-Baslan. His real enemies were the sheer-led Fatimid Caliphate. The sooner
he could stop wasting time here, the sooner he could get back to pressing matters there. But
sitting on his gilded throne, the emperor's heart and face showed no signs of compromise.
The judge finished his speech and gave a little bow, but the emperor didn't stir.
Instead, he raised one finger and pointed at the dirt. Perhaps a quiet gas spread over the entourage.
Surely the emperor didn't mean what they thought he did. To the humiliation of the entourage,
the esteemed judge was made to perform the full proskinesis.
Spreading his body out, bowing as low as possible, he approached the emperor and kissed the bare dirt
beneath his feet. A grave humiliation, not just to the sultan, but to the Abbasid Caliphate himself.
Ramana's presented him with his own terms for peace, which were virtually impossible to meet.
The emperor had already decided on battle, so he used his delegation as a propaganda exercise.
The delegation soon left, humiliated, having only agreed on the certainty of battle.
The next morning, in every mosque across the Sunni Muslim world,
a special prayer for the sultan was read aloud, quote,
Grant the sultan al-paslan, the proof of the commander of the faithful,
the help by which his banners are illuminated, causes troops to be helped by your angels and
his decisions to be crowned with good fortune and a happy outcome. The Roman army, too, gathered for
a religious reading. In keeping with the theme of poor choices, the emperor's priests read aloud
a passage that included the lines, quote, If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you,
and yea, the time cometh, that whosoever killeth you will think that he doth in God's service.
Not what you want to hear before rushing into battle. The formalities completed,
both sides marched out to the battlefield. The Roman troop deployment followed their
traditional tactic, tight formations of heavily armoured troops designed to deflect Turkish
missiles and resist the urge to give chase, to achieve victory they had to hold the line
and move steadily forward, maintaining cohesion. Then, when the enemy was worn out,
exploded forward at command. Romanus positioned himself in the center,
where he expected the heaviest fighting to take place. On the other side of the field,
al-paslan, dressed in all white as a gazi, had deployed as men in a broken crescent formation.
It was longer and thinner than Roman deployment, with loose groupings to allow for maneuverability.
His army was split into three groups with divisions that acted independently of each other.
For the Sultan, victory lay in breaking the enemy's cohesion,
driving them wild with arrow fire until gaps formed in their ranks.
But al-paslan had a little surprise up his sleeve for the Romans.
The Manzikurt battlefield was a long, narrow, grassy plain, was plenty of room for his horse
archers to maneuver. Behind him, the ground gradually became more broken with gullies,
rocks, and thin, deep streams. In the woods behind these streams were two contingents of horse
archers, ready to ambush the Romans if and when they broke ranks and gave chase.
This was not just to be a physical battle, but also a psychological one.
Romanus would have emphasized the importance of never giving chase. Regardless of the
circumstances whether it was the heat of battle, anger, or the loss of comrade's arrow fire,
he would have drilled into his troops a principle of holding formation
and never under any circumstances pursuing the Turkmen.
It was Friday, August 26th, 1071, as the army of Rome and the army of al-paslan
marched out for a battle that would change world history.
Romanus initiated battle with a measured charge, fully aware that this was going to be a long day,
his heavily armoured infantry and cavalry advanced steadily, keeping a tight formation.
Al-paslan's horse archers engaged the advancing Roman forces raining down arrows on them from
their lethal composite bows. Groups of horse archers would charge forward, unload a volley of
arrows into Roman ranks, manoeuvre around them, and then retreat, repeating this tactic continually
to never give the Romans peace. In the Roman lines, shields went up and though a few arrows found their
mark, the well-drilled soldiers weathered the blow and advanced like a singular machine.
The Seljuks retreated, reloaded, and rehorsed. While they did so, the next band would charge in,
fire another volley, loop around, and pull back, and it was al-paslan's job to ensure a steady,
controlled withdrawal took place. From the vantage point behind the Byzantine lines,
the Seljuk tactics may have appeared disorganised and chaotic, but in reality this was a meticulously
orchestrated manoeuvre overseen by al-paslan. He had to keep the formations in a near-perfect
crescent, where the middle fell back faster than the wings, to increase pressure on the
vulnerable Byzantine flanks. Conducting this on such a large scale was very difficult and the
sultan had to keep this balance at all times. As the day progressed, Romanus's troops continued
their steady advance, despite the relentless barrage of arrows from the Seljuk horse archers.
With no way of retaliating, the soldiers could do nothing but grit their teeth and bear it,
their fury growing with each casualty inflicted by the enemy. The Seljuk band repeatedly attempted
to lure the Romans into pursuing, but the disciplined commanders of the Byzantine army kept
their troops in formation, preventing any rash actions. By mid-afternoon, the Romans had reached
and overrun the forward camp of the Seljuks. Daylight was fading, and with the Romans still
maintaining their formation, al-paslan grew anxious about the dwindling space for manoeuvring.
Retreating in the dark could spell disaster, and neither the sultan nor the emperor was willing to
risk that. As the afternoon sun began to dip, the terrain changed. Craggy boulders and rivulets
crisscrossed the grassy plains. The Seljuks danced their horses across the gullies as they looped
around and around. One misplaced foot sent horse and rider screaming to the ground,
eagerly hacked apart by the advancing tide of Roman soldiers. But the terrain was equally nasty for
Romanus. Though they had kept formation, the Roman wings began to diverge from the center. Romanus knew
the sultan wouldn't miss an opportunity to drive a wedge in between. He had a decision to make.
The sun would soon set, and there was still no sign of breakthrough. Trying to retreat in the
dying light could cost him everything. Better to try again tomorrow. It was four o'clock in the
afternoon when Romanus reluctantly decided it was time to turn back. His squire flicked his wrist,
and the emperor's imperial banner was reversed. The banner always faced the direction of the
emperor's advance, so it being backwards indicated that the army was to turn around.
One flick of a wrist, so many consequences. The elite center, upon seeing the banner turn around,
realized this was a well understood signal and began to pivot in a controlled and steady manner.
However, the troops on the disconnected wings misunderstood the meaning behind this movement.
The mere hint of uncertainty from a senior commander, a raised eyebrow, or a stutter,
was enough to ignite a wave of confusion and fear among the rank and file soldiers.
Some began to whisper that the turning of the banner meant the emperor had died,
while others too far away to even see the banner found themselves lost in a state of uncertainty
and apprehension. There's an old Greek saying that says Phobos, the god of fear rules the battlefield.
All it takes is that fear to set into one man. A single person thought, to help with this I don't
want to be the last one, and started running. The panic spread. A few men from the back line of
the right wing dropped their weapons and ran. The contagion of fear quickly spread to the
second row, and then the third, and soon a cascade of soldiers began to break and run.
With each successive wave of desertion, the speed and magnitude of the retreat only intensified.
Romanus in the thick of the center screamed orders to stem the withdrawal, but already it was too
late. Soldiers on the periphery of the center had seen what was occurring and they too ran.
Our past lands seeing all this from a vantage point knew this was his moment. In a shining white
robe the sultan threw aside his bow and quiver and motion for his squire to bring his mace.
A later muslim source has him announcing to his household guard, quote,
I will achieve this goal or I will go as a martyr to paradise. He amongst you who wants to follow
me, let him follow me. He who goes away, the fires of hell and ignomony are obliquity for him.
Notting his horse's tail, the heroic lion pulled on his chainmail coiff and into the fray.
With his hidden riders from behind the hills, the sultan sallied out and smashed into the
disorganized Roman right wing. A muslim source says the riders bellowed, a lua akba so loud that
the mountains shook. Now in the thick of combat, Romanus IV parried blows left and right, while
barking orders at his heralds, desperately trying to understand how bad the situation on his flanks
were. Atop his charge of the emperor raised his banner high, signalling to his men that he still
lived. Despite the pleas of his advisors to retreat, Romanus refused to yield. Then a straight
arrow struck his horse, sending both rider and mount crashing to the ground. Covered in mud,
Romanus rose to his feet and joined his Armenian comrades in the desperate struggle to hold the
line. The situation was dire, he clung to hope, believing that if he could just hold out long
enough, his rearguard might yet turn the tide of battle. As the chaos unfolded below him,
Andronicus Ducus, accompanied by five thousand men, stood impassively on a nearby hill.
He had some of the best cavalry in the empire at his disposal.
But Andronicus remained unmoved. With a cold detachment in his eyes, he observed the sultan s
reinforcements maneuvering behind Romanus s position, effectively cutting off any hope of rescue.
Shifting in his saddle, Andronicus ordered a retreat, turning his back on the emperor who
fought valiantly for his life on the battlefield below. As the rearguard departed the battlefield,
any remaining hope for the Romans vanished. Those who could still flee did so, leaving
Emperor Romanus a fourth hopelessly encircled. Romanus fought on valiantly, buying time for
his retreating soldiers to regroup and fight another day. The emperor slashed and parried the
onslaught of turkey riders, his Armenian troops beside him, the only ones having not fled.
In the fighting, the emperor's sword hand was slashed, and as he bent over to retrieve his
weapon, he was taken prisoner by an unlikely adversary, a puny, pipsqueak of a man who'd
only been allowed to join the sultan's army on a whim.
With the battle concluded, Al-Baslan returned to his camp, as he thanked Allah the most merciful
for his incredible victory, and even more incredible prize was bought before him. Cleaned
and perfumed, the sultan sat upon his throne as a ragged prisoner was brought into his presence.
The man was filthy, coated in mud and blood and covered in innumerable wounds.
His jailer insisted that the sultan was looking at Emperor Romanus a fourth,
but Al-Baslan couldn't believe it, he thought he was being swindled. Only when one of his
diplomats who'd met the emperor before confirmed it, did he realise that he indeed had captured a
Roman emperor, the first to be taken prisoner in over 800 years. There are some conflicting reports
on what happens next, but most agree that a degree of ritualised humiliation took place.
Al-Baslan, mimicking the treatment his envoys were shown, commanded the emperor to kiss the ground
before him. Romanus, too proud, even now refused, and the sultan kicked him several times,
raised him to his feet and then slapped him, rebuking him for not accepting his generous
peace offer when he had the chance. The fallen emperor took the punishment silently, remarking
only, quote, the victory was yours, so stop rebuking me. When Emperor Valerian was captured
in battle in 260 AD, Roman historian Zosimus remarked that it was, quote, the greatest shame to the
name of the Romans for future generations. And as Romanus was led through the sultan's camp
with a rope around his neck, Roman soldiers turned their head away in shame, while one of his top
generals fell to his knees and wept. The next day, with the theatrics out of the way, the sultan
sent the emperor new clothes, and after his wounds were clean, he and the sultan met on much more
equal terms. Al-Baslan was not quite sure what to do with the prize that had fallen his lap,
so he asked Romanus, what would you do if I was in your position? According to Islamic sources,
Romanus told the sultan he would have left him with the dogs with a collar around his neck.
Admiring the fact that he told the truth, the sultan spent some time getting to know the emperor,
and Islamic source recounts how the emperor shared a premonition with the sultan. Romanus explained
to him that before the campaign, there was an ominous sign suggesting he would lose.
At the Iesofia church, a large cross on the wall fell and landed pointing towards Mecca.
Despite attempts to have secured it, fell again in the same direction. Even after being chained up,
it twisted in its brace, pointing again toward Mecca. Over the next days, Romanus and Al-Baslan
hammered out a peace treaty. Considering the circumstances, it was fairly lenient. The sultan,
realising the miraculous nature of his victory, steadied to Romanus, quote,
foolish as he who was not cautious before the unexpected reversal of luck.
Romanus agreed to pay 500,000 gold dinars to the sultan along with an annual tribute of 360,000.
He also agreed to release all Muslim prisoners and pledged to stay out of Islamic affairs in the
future, ending all hopes of a potential alliance with the Fatimid Caliphate. He also officially
relinquished control of several border cities, including Manzikert and the ancient holy city of
Antioch. Once the terms were settled, the two parted ways. Dressed in Persian attire under a banner
proclaiming there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet, Emperor Romanus IV began the
long march back to Constantinople. In the eight days since the battle took place, the Roman Empire
had not stood still. The traitorous Andronicus Dukas was one of the first back to the capital,
and he either told the court that the emperor had been killed or that he'd been captured.
Whether or not Romanus' allies in the capital believed him was irrelevant,
because he had on hand the only fully intact army within the empire. If you remember from earlier
in the episode, Romanus shared the throne with a young Dukud family member, Michael.
And with Romanus now out of the picture, the Dukus family raised the 21 year old to the rank of
sole emperor. A lot of people think Alparslan knew this would happen, and that by releasing Romanus
instead of killing him, he was almost guaranteeing a long civil war which would weaken the powerful
Roman state. But I don't believe this to be the case. Remember the whole war with the Romans was
a sideshow. Alparslan wanted the whole thing put to bed so he could go back to his real war
against the Fatimid Caliphate. A Roman civil war meant an unstable, possibly outright hostile
neighbour, depending on who was on the throne. Alparslan probably released Romanus as quickly
as possible because having him as an ally meant having an emperor in his back pocket. Additionally,
Romanus owed him a sizeable annual tribute that could fund his future wars against the Fatimids.
Planned or not though, it wasn't quick enough. Now, there were two empires. Stepping down meant
certain death either through the executioner's blade or poison at a later day. Civil war was
all but guaranteed. The majority of Romanus' allies fled the capital and moved east, where they met
Romanus to consolidate his forces. He had a few thousand soldiers behind him but he hoped to gather
more men to his cause. While Romanus' ranks did swell with additional soldiers, the time he
wasted allowed the newly crowned Michael VII to scramble his own forces. In such a desperate time,
a mercenary was worth his weight in gold. And surprise, surprise, who was in the right place
at the right time? A Norman. Robert Crispin, the very same Norman knight who had left the
emperor high and dry at Manzacurt, bravely volunteered to defend the empire, as long as,
you know, the price was right. Crispin and his brutally efficient Norman knights met the army
of Romanus, led by his old friend Theodore Alialtis, who had never wavered in his loyalty to the true
emperor. It was a bloody battle, but there's a reason Norman knights were desired in every army
across Europe. Mounted Viking knights cut through the beleaguered Roman army, Alialtis was captured
and had his eyes gouged out with ten pegs. Romanus retreated and was beaten back again and again.
As his forces dwindled, he even reached out to the Seljuks for assistance,
but nothing came of it. Romanus really did try everything, even attempting to bribe Robert Crispin
to turncoat again. We can only assume that Norman was being paid very well because he turned Romanus
down. With only a handful of soldiers, he and his supporters holed up in a little city on the
far eastern border. Ironically, he was now safer, close to Seljuk lands than he was to Roman ones.
After agreeing to talk terms, Romanus came face to face with Andronicus Dukas.
The man that had cost him everything and put him in this very position was the one he had to plead
his case to. How did the grizzled emperor feel looking upon the man that had single-handedly
destroyed his life and sent his empire into turmoil? Despite the two men's hatred for each other,
a deal was struck. No harm would come to Romanus, but he would be forced to retire to a monastery
and live out his days of the monk. All his property and titles would be forfeit, but he would live.
Flanked by three bishops who guaranteed his protection, the emperor hung his head and agreed.
Emperor Romanus was taken north to a small city while he waited transportation to a monastery
where he could live out his days. But as he waited, an order arrived from the capital.
A decree that the ex-emperor must first be blinded. Romanus had proven too slippery and resourceful,
and the Dukas family deemed this step necessary to ensure he remained in the monastery.
Romanus was seized. He begged for mercy, pleading and insisting that this had not
been part of the agreement. But what could he do? He looked to the bishops who would
guarantee his safety, but what could they do? Sadly, they bowed their heads and began quietly
chanting prayers. The once mighty Romanus squirmed and wriggled as the torturer approached him,
wielding whatever cruel tools he had on hand, and with ruthless determination began scraping out
the eyes of Emperor Romanus IV. On the tiny island of Proti,
just off the Greek mainland, the man who had once been, Emperor Romanus IV,
writhed in pain on the floor of his cell. By now, the monks had learnt to live with his
hideous screams and his cries for help. The blinding had not been conducted correctly,
and had led to agonising infections in his eye sockets. There was nothing anyone could do for him.
He would not last long. As the gibbering frame of Romanus IV fell around the hayen dung on the
floor of his cell, he heard the gate unlock. Someone had sent him something. It was a letter
from the capital from a man called Michael Celos, our primary source for this series.
As the letter was read to him, perhaps in his final moments the emperor found solace knowing
that someone, somewhere, recognised all he did and everything he lost. Part of the letter read,
quote, I am completely at a loss, most noble and miraculous man, whether I should cry for you
as a most unfortunate man, I should be amazed at you, a most glorious martyr. When I behold your
suffering surpassing in number and intensity, I count you among the most unfortunate. When I
reflect upon your so blameless conscience and your desire for good, I reckon you among the martyrs.
Reflect on the coming day of judgement, the martyrs will caress your pained eyes,
the angels will kiss them, and boldly, I venture, even God himself.
Judgment Day came quickly, and mercifully, Romanus died soon after receiving the letter.
Emperor Romanus Doge needs the fourth reign had ended in failure. How much of that you put down to
the man or down to the circumstances depends on your perspective. He had taken the throne with
the promise of vanquishing the Seljuks, but from this point forward his empire would rely on them
for almost every single future war. Undoubtedly, he was a brave man and a fairly talented general,
but he did make mistakes. On campaign, he cut corners and rushed, wanting to make sure he got
the most bang for his buck in a single season. He operated fairly well as a politician, and his
attempt to cozy up to the Khamnemnoi family was a good strategy that would have bore fruit if he
had survived Manzaker. But he was also naive and overly optimistic, putting too much trust in the
Normans who had already betrayed him twice. Likewise, the decision to leave a court rival
like Andronicus Dukas in command of the important reguard was foolish. Romanus failed to recognize
the diverse composition of his army at the Battle of Manzaker. A stark contrast to the
forces that were led by his predecessor, Basil II. Some historians argue that Basil II's expansionist
policies all but confirmed that eventual setback, like the one at Manzaker, even at the best of
times, the Empire's defences were stretched very thin. If you remember, some of Romanus' advisors
counseled the emperor to pull back to the old borders of the Empire and just let go of the
conquest of the past two centuries. How would that have looked? Who knows. So you might now
be wondering why Manzaker was so important. Rome had lost big battles before, and to be honest,
casualty rates weren't even that high. Seems only 5 or 10% of Roman troops were killed that day,
a fairly light toll for what's considering a world-changing battle. But it wasn't the
battle itself that was so pivotal. It's what happened after. Though the Roman Empire would
continue for another 350 or so years, this battle marked a turning point. From here on, the Empire
would rely on foreign soldiers, usually Normans or Turks, to fight their battles. Manzaker was the
last hurrah for any sizeable Roman army to take the field against an external threat. From here
onwards, the Empire would eat itself, spiralling into unending blood feuds and civil wars that
would never really stop until the 29th of May, 1453, when the Empire finally fell for good.
These big families, the Dukids, the Komnemnoi, the Paleologians, and the Lascari, all of them
would hire mercenaries for their family feuds. Seljuks, Normans, Bulgarians, Ottomans,
all would be invited to feast on the rich carcass of the Roman Empire.
When Empress had no more gold to give, they would promise land. Once they ran out of land,
they'd give away tax collection rights, then lordships, anything and everything to secure that
precious short-term stability. Anatolia, the heartland of the Empire, where most of its
horses were reared, would be the first region to go. At first, the Seljuks, then later the Ottomans.
Over the centuries, the ethnic makeup of the countryside would change from Greek-speaking
Orthodox Christians to Arabic-speaking Sunni Islam adherents, whose ancestors now make up
the population of modern Turkey. The Emperor Michael VII, Romanus' replacement, would prove
utterly worthless as ruler. Frivolous spending and further weakening of the army marked his reign,
which lasted just seven years, and those followed him would follow the same well-trodden path,
enriching their friends and power makers, gutting the military, and relying on
untrustworthy mercenaries for their defence. Though Romanus failed, he deserves a truly esteemed
spot in the Hall of Roman Emperors for going against the grain. He could have sat back as a
spoilt palace emperor and let the Empire fall apart, but he didn't. He took the heart apart
and suffered immensely for it. As for Al-Paslan, his incredible victory repelled him into stardom
across the Islamic world. But his fame would be short-lived. Rushing back to subdue his troublesome
realm, the Sultan was overseeing a minor rebellion. He promised the rebellion's leader Amnesty if he
came forward, but when he did, Al-Paslan changed his mind and ordered the man executed. The condemned
man driven by rage threw himself on Al-Paslan, fatally stabbing him three times. In a cruel
twist of fate, less than four months after the Battle of Manzikert, Al-Paslan was dead.
His son Malik Shah took the throne, but he wasn't made of the same stuff as his father or his grandfather.
The newly founded Seljuk state broke out in civil war,
and the Empire Togrel dreamed of crumbled quickly.
It's 1073 AD. Three long years had passed since the Battle of Manzikert, and for the Roman Empire,
things had gone from bad to worse. The Caucasus were gone, Anatolia was gone,
and Norman shadow states had sprung up all over the Empire. The Pax Romana, the piece of Rome,
was a fading memory. In the burnt-out husk of an old country estate in Castamon, near the Black Sea
coastline, a young Roman officer paced the halls of a crumbling villa. His name was Alexios Komnemnos,
and the villa had once belonged to his grandfather.
Castamon, like countless other towns, had suffered the ravages of conquest,
first by the Turks, and then the Normans, and then subsequent Turkish invasions.
Now it stood as a desolate ghost town. It's once thriving streets deserted and its buildings
left in ruins. Outside the villa, Alexios's soldiers waited. Their impatience palpable as
they tapped their feet, eager to depart from this desolate and lifeless place.
Behind his soldiers, bound and gagged, was their prisoner.
Ruzel, the Norman dog, they called him. Ruzel, like every Norman before him and after him,
had entered Imperial service as a mercenary, fought a few battles, and then turned on the Emperor.
Establishing his own shadow state within the Empire, his men raided up to the gates of Constantinople
itself. Every general sent to capture him he debated or defeated. But Alexios had got him.
The stop at his old family state had just been a detour on the way back to the capital.
Silently walking through the ashen frame of the old house, Alexios recalled the time he spent here
in his youth. Plump purple grapes, sprawling green fields, the comforting warmth of sunshine
that this ruin had once bestowed. Back then, everything seemed so perfect, so safe. How had
the Empire fallen so low? Alexios Komnemnos was made of different stuff to other men.
Wickedly intelligent and determined, he was a man forged in the crucible of a crumbling Empire.
He understood the shifting tides of change and witnessed the decline of the once mighty
Roman state happening all around him. Yet instead of surrendering to the inevitable,
he had taken a stand. Destitutors they were, he and his soldiers patrolled the Borderlands,
pushing back both Normans and Seljuks in an endless, thankless war. The Rome of yesterday was gone,
as was the army that it had conquered the world with. But in these Europeans, Alexios saw opportunity.
These Norman dogs, they had to be a way to use and abuse their talents in service of the Empire.
Rome had weathered storms before, and each time it emerged stronger,
there had to be a way back to the top. As the horrific screams of the Norman prisoner echoed
through the silent halls of his ancestral home, Alexios knew Rome was not finished. Not yet.
It's 10 years into the first great Roman Civil War.
Two Roman armies square off on a battlefield. During the battle, one young soldier fights with
special bravery. He's cutting through the enemy lines when he finds himself locked in a hand-to-hand
struggle with the mighty foe. His opponent singles him out as the man to beat, and he lays into the
attack with a mortal ferocity that makes it clear only one of them is going to walk away alive.
But the young soldier fights his opponent off and slays him in single combat,
and the enemy's comrades scatter. As the fury fades from his eyes, he looks around and sees
his side as victorious. The young man kneels down to strip his fallen enemy, but when he finally
removes the man's helmet, he finds himself gazing in horror into the face of his own brother.
They were in Spain so far from their father's fields in Italy. This young man traveled all
the way to this foreign land, believing that he was fighting for his country, never guessing that
it was his destiny to rip apart his own household. He breaks down and weeps and curses the gods for
his unholy victory. Then he lifts up his dead brother tenderly upon his shoulder. He carries
him off the battlefield back to camp, wraps him in a costly cloth, and places him on a funeral
pyre in order to cremate him following the custom by which the Romans honor their dead family members.
He lights a torch, places it under the pyre. He then takes the sword which had done the hated deed,
kneels over his brother, and runs himself through, so accompanying him on his journey to Hades.
The soldier's name is not recorded, but his fate represented the greatest fear of many of his
comrades. What son or brother, neighbor, or kinsman, business partner, or drinking buddy,
might end up slaying on these godforsaken fields. But that wasn't the only fear.
More than 400 years of concord, unity, and success had propelled Rome to the domination of her world.
She was unprecedented without peer. She had begun to seem invincible,
but now the fabric that bound the Romans together was starting to unravel.
Was it possible that Rome herself could fall in their lifetimes?
That soldier was fighting in the army of Pompey, the subject of this biography.
What does it take to command the loyalty of soldiers in times like this
to preserve their will to fight? This was not a war that Pompey had started,
nor was it one that he ever could have wished upon his fatherland.
But the fact could not be denied. It was civil war that raised Pompey up higher than any man of
his age or before, and it would be civil war that would one day bring him down again.
I'm Alex Petkus. You are listening to The Cost of Glory. It is our mission to retell the lives
of the great Greek and Roman heroes in order to learn from their successes, harness their energy,
and also, we hope and pray, to avoid their mistakes. This is part one of three of the life of Pompey,
the Great.
Gnaeus Pompeius, as he was called in Latin, was born in 106 BC to a good family,
but not a great one. And yet, in that unbelievably competitive playing field of Roman
statesmanship and warcraft, Pompey rose to become the most glorious Roman who up to that point had
ever lived. Even before he went to fight Sertorius, the commander of the opposing army in that scene
that we open with, even before his 30th birthday, Pompey earned the epithet among the Romans that
became known to history, that is, the Great, Magnus. And he kept that title as an official part
of his name. He would sign his official documents with it all the way up until he was eclipsed
and defeated in a bloody war by one that became even greater, that is, his friend and relative by
marriage, Julius Caesar.