The Great Events by Famous Historians [Volumes 1-14]

Breathless, covered with blood, brandishing the plundered weapons, and proclaiming the insult and its vengeance, the insurgents rushed toward the tranquil city, "Death to the French!" they shouted, and as many as they found were put to the sword. The example, the words, the contagion of passion, in an instant aroused the whole people. In the heat of the tumult Roger Mastrangelo, a nobleman, was chosen—or constituted himself—their leader. The multitude continued to increase; dividing into troops they scoured the streets, burst open doors, searched every nook, every hiding-place, and shouting "Death to the French!" smote them and slew them, while those too distant to strike added to the tumult by their applause. On the outbreak of this sudden uproar the Justiciary had taken refuge in his strong palace; the next moment it was surrounded by an enraged multitude crying aloud for his death; they demolished the defences and rushed furiously in, but the Justiciary escaped them. Favored by the confusion and the closing darkness, he succeeded, though wounded in the face, in mounting his horse unobserved, with only two attendants, and fled with all speed. Meanwhile the slaughter continued with increased ferocity; even the darkness of night failed to arrest it, and it was resumed the next day more furiously than ever. Nor did it finally cease because the thirst for vengeance was slaked, but because victims were wanting to appease it. Two thousand French perished in this first outbreak. Even Christian burial was denied them, but pits were afterward dug to receive their despised remains, and tradition still points out a column surmounted by an iron cross, raised by compassionate piety on one of these spots, probably long after the perpetration of the deed of vengeance.

Tradition, moreover, relates that the sound of a word, like the Shibboleth of the Hebrews, was the cruel test by which the French were distinguished in the massacre; and that, if there were found a suspicious or unknown person, he was compelled, with a sword to his throat, to pronounce the word ciciri, and the slightest foreign accent was the signal for his death. Forgetful of their own character, and as if stricken by fate, the gallant warriors of France neither fled nor united nor defended themselves. They unsheathed their swords and presented them to their assailants, imploring, as if in emulation of each other, to be the first to die. Of one common soldier it is recorded that, having concealed himself behind a wainscot, and being dislodged at the sword's point, he resolved not to die unavenged, and, springing forth with a wild cry upon the ranks of his enemies, slew three of them before he himself perished. The insurgents broke into the convents of the Minorites and Preaching Friars, and slaughtered all the monks whom they recognized as French. Even the altars afforded no protection; tears and prayers were alike unheeded; neither old men, women, nor infants were spared. The ruthless avengers of the ruthless massacre of Agosta swore to root out the seed of the French oppressors throughout the whole of Sicily; and this vow they cruelly fulfilled, slaughtering infants at their mothers' breasts and after them the mothers themselves, not sparing even pregnant women, but, with a horrible refinement of cruelty, ripping up the bodies of Sicilian women who were with child by French husbands, and dashing against the stones the fruit of the mingled blood of the oppressors and the oppressed. This general massacre of all who spoke the same language, and these heinous acts of cruelty, have caused the Sicilian Vespers to be classed among the most infamous of national crimes.

The very atrocity of the Vespers proved the salvation of Sicily, by cutting off all possibility of compromise. On that same bloodstained night of the 31st of March, the people of Palermo assembled in parliament, and, divided between the triumph of vengeance and terror at their own daring act, advanced still more decidedly in the path they had chosen. They abolished monarchy, and resolved to establish a commonwealth under the protection of the Church of Rome. They were moved to this determination by deadly hatred against Charles and his government, and the recollection of the stern rule of the Swabian dynasty on the one hand, and, on the other, by grateful remembrance of the liberty enjoyed in 1254; by the example of the Tuscan and Lombard republics, and by the natural pride of a powerful city, which having freed itself from a detested yoke confided in its own strength. The name of the Church was added in order to disarm the wrath of the Pope, to tempt his ambition, or to justify the rebellion under the pretext that in driving out their more immediate but criminal ruler they contemplated no infraction of loyalty to the suzerain from whom he held his power. Roger Mastrangelo, Henry Barresi, and Niccoloso of Ortoleva (knights), and Niccolo of Ebdemonia were proclaimed captains of the people with five counsellors. By the glare of torchlight on the bloody ground, amid the noise and throng of the armed multitude, and with all the sublime pomp of tumult, the republican magistrates were inaugurated. Trumpets and Moorish kettle-drums sounded, and thousands upon thousands of voices uttered the joyous cry of "The Republic and Liberty!" The ancient banner of the city—a golden eagle in a red field—was unfolded to wave amid new glories; and in homage to the Church the keys of St. Peter were quartered upon it.