Where Indic wisdom meets global strategy. Reflections on culture, power, memory and the forces shaping civilizations past and present.
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Wednesday, June 30, 2021
The Megali Idea and the Balkan Wars
The Three Pashas of the Ottoman Empire
Tuesday, June 29, 2021
The Russian Dream of Constantinople
Who Wins the Political and Cultural Battles?
Monday, June 28, 2021
The Norman Foes of the Byzantine Empire
Putin’s Dissertation Mirrors His Policy
Sunday, June 27, 2021
America: The New Ottoman Empire
The Aftermath of the Iranian Revolution
Saturday, June 26, 2021
America’s Atoms for Peace Policy
Dostoevsky: On Russia’s Asian Future
Friday, June 25, 2021
Churchill’s Operation Unthinkable
Persia Becomes Iran
Thursday, June 24, 2021
Mussolini’s View of the British
The Story of Elihu Yale: Yale University’s Benefactor
Wednesday, June 23, 2021
The Rise of Saladin
The God Rush, The Carnage, The Creativity
Tuesday, June 22, 2021
The East India Company & the American War of Independence
The Era Dorada and the Spanish Armada
Monday, June 21, 2021
Renaissance in the West—Loss of Culture in the East
Western Gladiators and Eastern Theists
Sunday, June 20, 2021
The Second Crusade: Debacle at Damascus
William Blake’s English Jerusalem
Saturday, June 19, 2021
Churchill: On The Soviet Iron Curtain
Anna Komnene’s Contribution to Greek Philosophy
Friday, June 18, 2021
Zengi and the Fall of Edessa
The Natural State of Mankind: Barbarism
Thursday, June 17, 2021
Bohemond's Last Crusade: Glory, Ambition, and the Fall of a Legend
When Bohemond of Taranto returned to Europe in the waning months of 1104, he was not merely a man—he was myth incarnate. The air itself seemed to shift in his presence. Word of his feats in the First Crusade had long preceded him, woven into the fabric of troubadour songs, courtly gossip, and ecclesiastical letters. Though he had never set foot in Jerusalem, tales of his valor at Antioch had made him the most celebrated commander of the entire expedition. Wherever he went, Bohemond was hailed as a Christian hero, a scourge of the Saracens, and the self-styled "Prince of Antioch."
But Bohemond’s journey home was not a retreat—it was a campaign of a different kind. He had returned to raise another army, not to redeem the Holy City alone, but to bring down the mighty Byzantine Empire itself. In his letters to the pope and Christian monarchs, he cast his ambition as sacred purpose. The relics he distributed—collected during his Eastern exploits—were both spiritual tokens and political tools, sealing his image as a warrior chosen by God.
When he arrived in Italy, he was received by Pope Paschal II, successor to the late Pope Urban II. Bohemond’s silver tongue and sacred narrative found fertile ground. At the Council of Poitiers in 1106, the pope formally sanctioned a new crusade. He gave Bohemond the banner of St. Peter and dispatched a papal legate to bolster his cause. This was not merely ecclesiastical support; it was papal endorsement of a campaign that would turn crusading zeal against fellow Christians.
As an unmarried prince, Bohemond became the subject of dynastic speculation. Eligible heiresses were paraded before him, but he cast his gaze high. He married Constance, daughter of King Philip I of France, a union that vaulted him into the inner sanctum of European royalty. This alliance with the Capetian house proved politically invaluable: knights, barons, and adventurers from across France, Flanders, and the Rhineland flocked to his banner, lured by the promise of conquest and divine favor.
Bohemond toured the courts of Europe, invoking the glories of Nicaea, Antioch, and the imagined triumphs yet to come. His charisma was magnetic; his promises intoxicating. Only England resisted the pull. King Henry I denied Bohemond passage across the Channel, perhaps wary of his French ties or his growing prestige. The exact motive remains lost to history, but England alone stood aloof from his continental acclaim.
By October 1107, Bohemond had gathered an army estimated at 34,000 men—an imposing host by medieval standards. Yet the crusade that followed was not to be a path to glory but a descent into humiliation. The object of Bohemond’s wrath, Emperor Alexios I Komnenos of Byzantium, was no stranger to Norman belligerence. A master strategist, Alexios refused to engage in pitched battle. When Bohemond’s forces arrived in Epirus, the emperor employed the tactics of attrition. With the aid of his Venetian allies, Alexios severed the invaders’ supply lines and allowed the siege to wither under the weight of disease, starvation, and attrition.
By the summer of 1108, Bohemond’s grand crusade had collapsed into a desperate plea for peace. The terms of the Treaty of Deabolis—recorded with evident satisfaction by Anna Komnene in her Alexiad—were brutal. Bohemond, once the proud conqueror of Antioch, was forced to acknowledge the emperor as his liege. The man who had sought to humble Byzantium now bowed before it.
Ashamed, defeated, and broken in spirit, Bohemond never returned to the East. He withdrew to Italy, where he died in 1111, his ambitions buried with him. The legend of Bohemond, once sung in the courts of Europe, faded into the echo of what might have been—a crusader who dared to defy an empire and was undone not by infidels, but by imperial cunning.
The Delusion of Intellectuals
Wednesday, June 16, 2021
The Fall of the Crusader States: Jerusalem and Acre
Churchill's Perspective
Tuesday, June 15, 2021
The Imperial Ambitions of Anna Komnene
Monday, June 14, 2021
George and Clemenceau: Dividing the Middle East
On Complete Independence
Sunday, June 13, 2021
The Fallout of the Battle of Manzikert
The Age of Excommunication of Monarchs
Saturday, June 12, 2021
Alexios I Komnenos and the First Crusade
Friday, June 11, 2021
The Consequence of Richard Lionheart’s Death: Magna Carta
Erich Hoffer: On the Elites
Thursday, June 10, 2021
The Consequences of Constantine’s Conversion
Wednesday, June 9, 2021
Silk, Sesterces, and Sin: How Fashion Became a Political Issue in Rome
Silk from China began entering the Roman Empire as early as the third century BC, moving along vast trade networks that later came to be known as the Silk Routes. By the early imperial period, silk garments had become coveted symbols of luxury among Rome’s elite. Yet this fascination with an exotic fabric provoked deep moral unease among Rome’s traditionalists, who viewed silk not merely as a fashion trend but as a threat to social order and virtue.
Among the earliest and most vocal critics was Seneca the Elder, who regarded silk clothing as scarcely deserving the name of garments at all. In his view, silk failed in the most basic function of dress: it neither concealed the body nor preserved modesty. He argued that the very foundations of Roman morality were being eroded by fabrics so thin that they revealed the contours of the female form, leaving little to imagination and even less to decorum. What troubled Seneca was not only the visibility of the body, but the symbolic inversion of Roman values—discipline, restraint, and austerity—by a material associated with luxury and excess.
In Declamations (Volume One), Seneca expressed his indignation with biting clarity:
“I can see clothes of silk, if materials that do not hide the body, nor even one’s decency, can be called clothes… Wretched flocks of maids labour so that the adulteress may be visible through her thin dress, so that her husband has no more acquaintance than any outsider or foreigner with his wife’s body.” The passage reveals how silk was framed not simply as immodest, but as socially corrosive, blurring boundaries between public and private, husband and stranger.
Moral anxiety was accompanied by economic concern. In the first century AD, Pliny the Elder lamented the enormous sums flowing eastward to satisfy Roman appetites for silk. He complained that the empire’s wealth was being siphoned off so that “the Roman lady might shimmer in public,” estimating that as much as 100 million sesterces were lost annually on silk imports. For Pliny, silk was emblematic of a broader imbalance: Rome’s military and political power contrasted sharply with its dependence on foreign luxuries.
The Roman political establishment periodically attempted to curb this perceived decadence. Emperor Aurelian, according to later sources, famously refused to allow his wife to purchase a mantle of Tyrian purple silk, citing its exorbitant cost. Sumptuary laws were also enacted to restrict or ban men from wearing silk altogether. Such garments were branded effeminate and incompatible with Rome’s martial ethos, which prized toughness, simplicity, and visible masculinity.
Taken together, these reactions reveal how a single material could unsettle an empire. Silk was not merely a fabric imported from distant China; it became a lightning rod for Roman fears about moral decline, economic leakage, and the softening of a society built on conquest and discipline.