Download PDF | John J. Giebfried, Kyle C. Lincoln - The Remaking of the Medieval World, 1204 (Reacting to the Past™)-Reacting Consortium Press, 2021.
112 Pages
The Fourth Crusade is in chaos. Its leaders had hoped that by diverting to Constantinople they would pay off their debts, secure Byzantine aid, and win the obedience of the Greek Orthodox Church for the papacy. Now the emperor they installed has been brutally murdered, and his killer sits on the Byzantine throne. The Crusaders must now decide: Should they let this crime go unpunished and continue on to Jerusalem, or should they dare to attack the largest, richest, and most well-defended city in the Christian world? Students will play as Crusaders from one of four historical factions—the Northern French, Imperial, Venetian, or Clerical Crusaders—each with unique personal and faction goals. In the end they will reenact the moment that changed Crusading and the relationship between the Eastern and Western Christian worlds forever.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been, well, let’s see, more than a year since my confession on the lagoon in Venice. When we heard the call to crusade preached by the Cistercian brothers of the abbey of Bonmont near the shores of Lac Leman, our father had the highest of hopes for the Holy Land, but we didn’t know anything about the venture. It was a hard trip back for him across the Jura Mountains to our farm in Cologny, with cross sown on his travelling cloak, where our little farm makes the finest cheeses for the lords of Gex near Geneva. By the time he came home, he was already taken with consumption.
He passed away that November and my brother, William and I held together our farm through the snows. When spring came, the parish priest told us the bishop of Geneva had decreed we could send money to support a soldier fighting for the marquis in the crusade, or one of us could go in Father’s stead. I made my way toward Venice with my father’s cross sewn on my shoulder and a sword on my back, carrying with me the staff of a humble and penitent pilgrim. You know the rest, Father. We all grew hungry on the lagoon, waiting for the armies to arrive. When the day finally came to set out for Jerusalem, there were celebrations, and the wind was swift those first nights.
It was my first time on a boat like that—not a little river skiff or a ferry, I mean. In those days, it was exciting, if a little hard on the belly. Now, I don’t think I will ever stomach another long boat ride without getting sick for what has happened. When we made landfall outside that city, I asked one of the Venetian sailors what the name of the town was called and how long we were staying. I can’t remember his answer to the second question, but I remember the first one. Oh, God forgive us, I will hear the name of that city with my last breath: Zara. Word came down from the doge and the counts that the town was supposed to be in the hands of a good Christian who would give us aid and supplies and that maybe even more soldiers would join us.
There was a troubadour from Provence named Raimbaut, whom I had befriended on our passage. His dialect was thick, but eventually we understood each other. We talked to pass the time, mostly with the others on our round-ship, and it was a pleasant trip, mostly. The sun and the spray of the ships made my face feel fine. When we got to Zara we were tired, and Raimbaut looked more pale and yellow than he should have on our second day at Zara. He told me that the king whose town Zara was had betrayed God and the church and we had received orders to capture the town and take what supplies we could to avenge the dishonors done to Christ Jesus. Many lords, abbots, and knights left our company there, sailing on without aid of supplies to Jerusalem.
Many nights I wish I had been brave enough to join them. Instead, I helped load a trebuchet that tossed stone after stone against the city’s walls, killing many brave Christian men who defended the battlements. By the time we made it to Constantinople, the count of Biandrate, told us in the Gray Stork, which was our round-ship, that we were sailing first to deliver the emperor of Constantinople to his palace. He had been betrayed by a dastardly uncle who deposed and barbarically blinded the boy’s father and true emperor. The palaces and the churches of the Queen of Cities were being held hostage by the usurper, and the count said that we, by order of the Lord Pope Innocent, were to go honorably to his aid so that he would be restored to the place that God himself had destined him to hold. I never saw the emperor when we were travelling, and I think I saw him only once while we were assembled on the plain outside the city.
I know that he was young, or at least that he was called Alexius the Young. Raimbaut said that this was common on pilgrimages like ours. The emperors of Constantinople often pretended to love God and honor the church, but instead they double-crossed many. Even the great German emperors Conrad III and Frederick Barbarossa had been betrayed by the emperors of Constantinople when they had come in the time of our fathers and grandfathers. Raimbaut’s friend Pierre told me that we were probably going to have to fight to defend the true emperor of Constantinople, since he was a pilgrim like we were. Pilgrims were bound by honor and their vows to defend one another. Even if the emperor of Constantinople did not obey the pope, he was a brother Christian too. This emperor, the young one, had promised to bring the church back together.
Conduct that honorable was proof enough of his noble heart and his faithfulness. Or so we thought, Father. That was some time ago. Since then, the young emperor has been deposed and murdered by a monster—who like every other Greek seems to be named Alexius. The traitor-emperor has attacked our ships and proven himself not only dishonorable but also a heathen, damned with the devil. So here we sit, waiting for the marquis, the doge, and the other lords to decide how best to attack those walls. Those walls are taller than the tallest tree on our farm, Father, taller than the cathedral in Geneva. I’ve never seen any like them. I don’t know how we’ll get past them. I think that unless God has more mercy for my family yet, I will not survive an attack on those walls. I know that I have sinned many times on this journey, but if I don’t make it to Jerusalem to fulfill my vow, I have done everything to remain true to my vow to take up the cross.
Father, forgive me for what I must do in the name of the true church and in the name of the pilgrimage and with the blessings of the work of Christ. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. AmenThis is a “reacting” game. Reacting games are interactive historical role-playing games. Students are given elaborate game books, which place them in moments of historical controversy and intellectual ferment. The class becomes a public body of some sort; students, in role, become particular persons from the period, often as members of a faction. Their purpose is to advance a policy agenda and achieve their victory objectives. To do so, they will undertake research and write speeches and position papers; and they will also give formal speeches, participate in informal debates and negotiations, and otherwise work to win the game.
After a few preparatory lectures, the game begins and the players are in charge; the instructor serves as adviser or “game master.” Outcomes sometimes differ from the actual history; a postmortem session at the end of the game sets the record straight. The following is an outline of what you will encounter in reacting games and what you will be expected to do. While these elements are typical of every reacting game, it is important to remember that every game has its own special quirks.
Link
Press Here
0 التعليقات :
إرسال تعليق