*Morosini’s pet cat, Nini & one of her victims*

The Captain-General’s Cat

“In his day, Francesco Morosini was, perhaps, the greatest of Venice’s heroes. A descendent of the ancient and powerful Morosini family, he led Venetian forces to many glorious victories in the Great Turkish War against the Ottoman Empire. In fact, in 1687 he managed to conquer the entire Peloponnese. On a map, that great southern peninsula of Greece, with its finger-like projections into the Mediterranean, seems to be thumbing its nose at Crete – as well it might, because, years before, Morosini had been forced to surrender Crete to the Turks.

But we needn’t dwell on that. Better to remember him as Peloponnesiacus, liberator of the Peloponnese. And, lest we forget, he went on to take Athens back from the Turks, too – if only temporarily. So, it is not surprising that he was elected Doge as soon as that office became vacant, which it did in 1688.

Francesco was not the first of his family to wear the ducal corno. Three of his ancestors preceded him as Doges of Venice; and another, a certain Domenico Morosini, commanded the galley that transported the four Horses of St. Mark to Venice, after they were stolen from Constantinople in 1204.

You would think that Francesco’s mighty accomplishments would ensure him lasting fame, and a place among Europe’s pantheon of greats; and in Venice, at least, he is fondly remembered. (Two years ago, I was able to attend an excellent exhibit of Morosini memorabilia, at the Correr Museum.) Nevertheless, the sad truth is that elsewhere, if he is remembered at all, it is for a few odd personal quirks, and one tragic and infamous event.

The historian and travel writer Jan Morris, in her book The Venetian Empire, popularized two of the quirks: “He dressed always in red from top to toe and never went into action without his cat beside him.” In the Correr show, there were several portraits of Morosini in red; and there was a mummified cat with a mummified mouse on exhibit as well – the remains of his beloved pet Nini and one of her victims. Let us admit the quirks. However, to fully examine the event for which the world remembers him, we must leave Venice behind, and go to the scene of the crime: Athens.

If you’ve visited Athens, you know that the Acropolis, a great grey limestone monolith, rises above and dominates the city. No doubt you climbed the slippery marble steps up to the Propylaea, and emerged from that great gateway onto the hilltop, where you were surrounded by the finest remains of Periclean Athens. You admired the small temple to Athena called the Erechtheum, whose porch is supported by six of antiquity’s loveliest caryatids, and next to the Propylaea’s south wall, another small temple that celebrates Nike, goddess of victory. But it was the Parthenon that commanded your attention – and awe.

The great building’s outer colonnade consists – or rather, consisted – of 46 fluted Doric columns, each 34 feet high. Within the structure, more columns surrounded the cella, an inner sanctuary. Phidias, the greatest sculptor of his age, created a frieze around the top of the cella, depicting Athenians and gods in procession. Above the outer colonnade, and in the triangular pediments at each end of the building, there were dramatic high-relief carvings: Athena and Poseidon contending for patronage of Athens in the western pediment, and the birth of Athena in the eastern one.

The Parthenon was the supreme architectural masterpiece of Greece’s Golden Age. Now, of course, many of the columns are missing or broken, the roof has collapsed, the cella is in fragments, the friezes are shattered, and only a few carved fragments remain on the broken pediments. But when Morosini and his allied forces crossed from the Peloponnese into Attica, and began besieging Ottoman-controlled Athens, the Parthenon, though 21 centuries old, was still mostly intact. Perhaps the Ottoman occupiers of Athens thought the building, having survived so long, was indestructible; in any case, they stored most of their gunpowder and munitions in the Parthenon’s cella.

Next time you’re in Athens, when you climb the Acropolis, find your way to the southern edge of the hill, just past the Temple of Nike. Below, you’ll see an ancient amphitheatre, the Odeon of Herodes Atticus. Look past the theatre, and its arched skene, or backdrop; there is a wooded hill beyond and just to the right, with a ruined tower on its crest. This is the Mouseion hill. The ruined tower is a monument to an ancient prince. It was from the top of this hill that a mortar shell was fired by one of Morosini’s gunners. If you’d been there at the time, the 26th of September, 1687, you might have seen a puff of smoke on the hill, and heard the whistle of the shell’s flight before it landed in the Parthenon’s cella, and the entire hilltop erupted in flames.

*The Odeon of Herodes Atticus, with the Mouseion hill beyond*

Of course, the Ottoman resistance crumbled like the Parthenon’s columns. Morosini called the shot “fortunate,” which seems to have enraged generations of historians. He also tried to bring a section of the west pediment reliefs home as a souvenir, but it fell and was destroyed; he had to settle for a marble lion from Piraeus, which you can now see beside the gates of the Arsenal in Venice.

Morosini is almost universally blamed for the terrible damage to the Acropolis; but honestly – if your city was under siege, and the enemy had mortars and cannon, would you pack all your explosives into the most prominent target in town? It’s enough to make a cat laugh – and perhaps it did.