The first duty of Doge Dom Michiel, in 1118, was to secure peace with the King of Hungary, freeing Venice to focus on events in the East. At that moment, the King of Jerusalem languished as a prisoner of the Saracens, and a stirring appeal from the Pope was solemnly read in St Mark’s Basilica, calling upon Venice to act.

A full year was devoted to preparation. A formidable fleet took shape: forty great galleys, twenty-eight transports, and many smaller vessels. When at last they sailed, the scene was unforgettable. Ships painted in brilliant colours, banners snapping in the wind, and ranks of knights and foot soldiers glittering in armour under the sun. From the Doge’s ship flew both the banner of St Mark and the consecrated standard of the Cross, symbols of Venice’s union of faith and power.

Yet destiny delayed their purpose. The captive king would remain in chains another year, for the Doge faced urgent matters closer to home. The Byzantine Emperor Johannes, hostile to Venetian interests, had to be confronted.

Fire and Steel Across the Seas

The fleet anchored before Corfu, spending the winter attempting to seize the island. Though unsuccessful, they inflicted heavy damage and, having “invoked divine assistance,” sailed again in spring. Their course was marked by destruction: Chios, Lesbos, and Rhodes were devastated before the fleet reached Cyprus.

There, news arrived that a Saracen armament threatened Jaffa. The Venetians struck at once. In the ensuing battle, the Doge’s galley drove straight at the Emir’s ship and sank it. Panic seized the enemy, and a decisive victory followed. The slaughter was so great that, for years, sailors of Jaffa claimed the sea was fouled with the bodies of the slain.

At Jaffa, the Doge was greeted by the clergy and barons of Jerusalem and carried in triumph to the Holy City. There he was acclaimed Champion of Christendom. When urged to continue the struggle, he replied that nothing lay closer to Venetian hearts than the expansion of Christian dominion in the East, and that their long-renowned piety demanded expression through action.

An agreement was reached:

• One-third of captured cities and spoils would belong to Venice,
• One-third to the King of Jerusalem,
• One-third to the Patriarch of Jerusalem.

The costs of war would be shared equally, and Venetian trading privileges—already secured at Sidon—were confirmed and extended to all future conquests.

The Epic of Tyre

Debate followed: should the next target be Tyre or Ascalon? The decision was left to chance. Lots were cast, and a boy drew a single word from the urn: Tyre.

The capture of Tyre by Venetians and Franks stands as one of history’s great epics. Known as “the mart of nations, made glorious in the heart of the seas,” Tyre was fiercely defended. The finest Saracen warriors manned its walls, while armies from Damascus and fleets from Egypt fought in vain to break the siege.

Rumours spread among the Franks that the Venetians intended to abandon the enterprise. When this slander reached the Doge, he ordered a plank torn from the side of each ship and carried before him into the Frankish camp. With grave dignity, he rebuked the accusers and offered these planks as tangible pledges of Venetian loyalty.

As the siege dragged on, money ran short. The Doge responded with bold ingenuity: he issued coins of leather, pledging to redeem them for true ducats upon the fleet’s return to Venice.

After five months, famine overcame the defenders. Honourable terms of surrender were granted, and above Tyre floated the banner of the King of Jerusalem beside the standard of St Mark. Venice had set her foot firmly in Syria.

Vengeance, Glory, and Return

Though the fleet turned westward, its work was not complete. Emperor Johannes had expelled Venetian traders from imperial ports. Retribution followed. Greek islands suffered sack and ruin; cities were stripped of wealth, their people mourning captives carried away.

The Doge paused only to reclaim Dalmatian fiefs from the King of Hungary. Smouldering ruins testified to Venice’s power and resolve. Reinforced from Dalmatia, the fleet struck again at the Greeks, who hastened to make peace on the Doge’s terms.

Venice erupted in celebration upon his return. He brought with him the relics of St Isidore from Chios and St Donato from Cephalonia, along with spoils of Eastern splendour unseen since Venice first rose from the sea.

Before following him to his retreat and death in the Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore—where a weathered epitaph still names him “the Terror of the Greeks and the Glory of Venice”—one final domestic achievement deserves remembrance.

Light in the City

Among Venice’s quiet charms are the small shrines of the Virgin and Child, adorned with flowers and lit at night by oil lamps in hidden corners of the city. Though no longer essential for lighting the streets, they endure through popular devotion.

This innovation was due to Dom Michiel. To aid watchmen in clearing thieves from Venice’s dark, winding lanes, the clergy were ordered to erect and maintain these shrines, funded by a public levy. What began as a measure of safety became a lasting symbol of Venetian piety.

After Michiel: Growth and Building

From Michiel’s retirement to the election of Vitale Michieli II in 1156, two Doges—Pietro Polani and Dom Morosini—guided Venice’s continued rise. Despite conflicts with Adriatic pirates, Hungarians in Dalmatia, and rivals on the mainland, Venetian commerce expanded by skillfully exploiting tensions between the rival emperors of East and West.

This was an age of construction. The Campanile was completed, new churches rose, and a hospital was founded for the mothers and widows of seamen who had fallen in service to the state.

Empire, Ideal, and Illusion

Political theories detached from reality are dangerous, especially when they seize powerful imaginations. In truth, the Roman Empire had long since fallen apart, yet so enduring was its legacy that even northern invaders saw it as a pillar of civilisation. The Church sanctified this idea, and the Holy Roman Empire survived in theory until wit and cannon—Voltaire and Napoleon—destroyed the illusion.

In the poetic vision of Dante, driven by a longing for peace and justice, the Empire became a noble but impractical dream: an emperor above kings, restraining war and restoring the harmony of the Pax Romana. But history was moving toward nations, not empires, and the great emperors’ attempts to enforce their imagined authority were doomed from the start.