The advent of Renier Zeno to the ducal throne in 1253 marked a decisive step in the continued suppression of popular rights within the Venetian Republic. It was decreed that, even before the electoral college of the Forty-One published the name of the new Doge, the people must swear obedience to their choice. Political control thus preceded public knowledge.

To soften this blow, the government resorted to a familiar tactic: distraction. A magnificent tournament and a series of sumptuous processions celebrated Zeno’s election and enthronement, dazzling the populace while their political voice diminished.

Zeno was no mere figurehead. A seasoned administrator and capable soldier, he had commanded the Bolognese forces as podestà during the siege of Ferrara. His reign of sixteen troubled years would see his military talents fully exercised, for it was under his rule that the long and exhausting conflict with Genoa began—a struggle for naval supremacy and commercial monopoly that would shape the fate of the Mediterranean.

The Spark at St Jean d’Acre

At St Jean d’Acre stood a church dedicated to St Sabbas, where Genoese and Venetians worshipped together—though each claimed exclusive ownership of the building. A dispute over a Venetian corsair allegedly captured by the Genoese escalated into violence. Rioting followed. Genoese forces raided Venetian ships, sacked their quarter of the city, and burned the shared church.

After futile, and perhaps insincere, attempts at reconciliation, Venice resolved on vengeance. In 1286, Lorenzo Tiepolo was dispatched with a fleet to Acre. His campaign was swift and destructive: Genoese ships were burned in harbour, their settlement partially destroyed, and their stronghold—the castle of Mongioia—captured.

The Genoese sued for a truce, which was granted for two months.

As tangible proof of his success, Tiepolo sent notable trophies back to Venice:

• The short porphyry column now standing at the south-west corner of St Mark’s, known as the Pietra di Bando (the proclamation stone).
• Two richly decorated square marble columns that still stand side by side facing the Piazzetta, opposite the south side of St Mark’s Basilica.

Truce in Name Only

The truce proved hollow. Both republics hurried to test their strength again, hastily assembling fleets. A fierce battle was fought between Acre and Tyre, ending in Genoese defeat and the capture of their admiral. At the same time, a second Venetian squadron ravaged Genoese settlements throughout the Levant.

Internal strife in Genoa delayed retaliation, but in 1258 a new fleet sailed under Rosso della Turca, determined to restore Genoese fortunes. The Venetians reinforced their admiral, and the opposing squadrons met on Midsummer Day, near the site of Tiepolo’s earlier victory.

For a full day the Genoese admiral attempted, unsuccessfully, to outmanoeuvre his enemy. The following morning battle was unavoidable.

Before the clash, Tiepolo addressed his men with a rousing oration. He reminded them that the honour of Venice—and mastery of the seas—hung in the balance. A great cry arose:

Viva San Marco, protettore del Veneto dominio.

The battle that followed was long, bloody, and fiercely contested. Victory once again favoured Venice. Twenty-five galleys and 2,600 prisoners were taken and sent to Venice, where the captives were confined in the granaries of St Mark’s. The remnants of the Genoese fleet scattered, while Tiepolo’s damaged ships returned to Acre to refit.

Yet, in the heat of triumph, Venetian forces committed an act that stained their reputation: a wanton assault on the Genoese quarter of Acre, which they sacked and burned.

A Tragedy for Christendom

To Christian Europe, the spectacle was heartrending. It was another chapter in the self-destructive rivalry between the two greatest maritime powers of the age—a conflict that would ultimately reduce one to impotence and leave the other too exhausted to withstand the rising tide of Turkish conquest.

The Papacy, ever anxious to reconcile Christian states, intervened. An honourable but temporary peace was concluded.

The Fall of Constantinople Reclaimed

Three years later, a new storm broke in the East. Under the feeble rule of Baldwin II, the Latin Empire tottered toward collapse. Corruption and self-indulgence had hollowed out the Frankish knighthood; death, desertion, and private ambition had thinned their ranks.

The Emperor himself, a pitiable figure, spent much of his reign wandering from court to court across Europe, begging for aid. One by one, the empire’s treasures were pawned:

• The Crown of Thorns,
• Priceless jewels and sacred objects alla greca,
• Gold and silver icons later remembered as the jewels of St Mark.

Even Baldwin’s son was left in Venice as a princely hostage, securing a loan from the Cappello family.

Meanwhile, the Greek Empire of Nicaea, under resolute leadership, was forging a formidable military power. In 1260, Michael Palaiologos, guardian of the young heir, seized the imperial throne. His ambition was nothing less than the restoration of the Greek Empire in Constantinople.

An army of 25,000 men, commanded by his favoured general Alexios, was assembled near the city. One gate was treacherously opened by night. Constantinople fell almost without resistance. The Greek inhabitants, weary of foreign rule, welcomed the invaders.

A city that had cost apostasy, two sieges, and the flower of Frankish chivalry was lost in a single night.

Venice Humiliated

Venice had long foreseen the danger and maintained a powerful fleet in the Bosphorus. Was she aiming at a higher prize—perhaps even the Frankish sceptre itself? Chi sa?

What did occur, to the astonishment and indignation of the home government, was disastrous. At the critical moment, the fleet was away on a punitive expedition in Thrace. It returned only in time to receive the fleeing Baldwin and the Venetian governor.

From the sea, the defeated admirals watched helplessly as the sky glowed red over the city. They saw crowds of fellow countrymen and allies on the shore, hands outstretched in vain, and heard the cries of the victims mingled with the triumphant shouts of the conquerors.

On 26 July 1261, Michael Palaiologos entered Constantinople in triumph. The Greek Empire was restored; the pillage ceased.

For Venice, the humiliation was profound. She soon learned that the Genoese had secretly allied themselves with the new Emperor—and had been richly rewarded. The island of Chios, formerly Venetian, was granted to them as a trading station. Even the palace of the Venetian governor was surrendered, later demolished, its finest marbles carried off to Genoa as spoil.

With imperial approval, Negropont, a Venetian fief, was seized and its Venetian population expelled. In a matter of hours, the fruits of more than fifty years of effort and sacrifice were swept away.

The proud masters of the Latin Empire found themselves reduced to the status of Pisa in the very city they had once hoped to rule as their ultimate prize.