S4 E13 Ezzelino III da Romano: The Butcher of the March

 Step into the blood-soaked streets of 13th-century northern Italy, where political rivalry was a death sentence and mercy was a forgotten word. In this episode of The Dark History Podcast, we uncover the chilling story of Ezzelino III da Romano, a warlord so feared that even Dante placed him in the Seventh Circle of Hell. 

Ruling during the brutal conflict between the Guelphs and Ghibellines, Ezzelino rose from minor nobility to become one of the most infamous figures in medieval Europe. Aligning himself with the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II, he carved out a vast domain through intimidation, political manipulation, and calculated slaughter. His reign was marked by torture chambers, public executions, and the eradication of entire families. 

At the height of his power, Ezzelino laid siege to the proud Guelph stronghold of Padua in 1256. What followed was not a victory, but a massacre—thousands killed, priests mutilated, women and children slaughtered, and the city reduced to a smouldering warning. Chroniclers claimed that in just two years, over 11,000 people perished under his rule. Whether exaggerated or not, the terror he inspired was real. 

We trace Ezzelino’s rise, his calculated brutality, and his inevitable downfall as the Pope declared a crusade against him—a rare honour reserved for only the most despised of enemies. Captured at the Battle of Cassano in 1259, Ezzelino refused food, medicine, or confession, dying in prison as the cities he once ruled celebrated his demise. 

From fortress intrigue and political betrayal to siege warfare and mass executions, this is the story of a man who turned cruelty into a system of governance. Perfect for listeners drawn to medieval history, true crime, and the study of absolute power, this episode serves as both a deep historical dive and a grim cautionary tale. 

Join us as we bring Ezzelino III da Romano out of the shadows of history, to stand once more in the light—if only to remind us how far human cruelty can reach. 

Transcript

In the 13th century, Italy was not a unified nation. It was a fractured landscape of city-states—each fiercely independent, endlessly ambitious, and constantly at war. At the heart of this chaos were two bitter factions: the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. The Guelphs supported the Pope. The Ghibellines backed the Holy Roman Emperor. But this wasn’t just politics—it was a blood feud. Families, towns, entire cities chose sides, and centuries of warfare followed. Allegiance wasn’t about belief. It was about survival. Florence, Milan, Bologna—they leaned Guelph. Verona, Cremona, and many Lombard cities? Ghibelline. Battles flared across the northern plains of Italy. Alliances shifted. Betrayals were constant. The papacy and the empire were locked in a vicious tug of war, and in the middle stood a man who would come to embody the worst excesses of the age. Ezzelino III da Romano wasn’t just a warlord. He was a political opportunist with a fanatical belief in imperial supremacy. He saw cities not as homes of culture or faith, but as prizes to be subdued. He believed peace was weakness, and mercy a lie.

By 1256, Ezzelino controlled much of northern Italy. He had conquered Verona, Vicenza, and Brescia through violence and intimidation. Now he turned his gaze to Padua—a proud, prosperous city that had resisted his rule for years. It was a Guelph stronghold, loyal to the Pope, and Ezzelino meant to make an example of it. The siege was brutal. His army surrounded the city, cutting off supplies. Starvation set in. Disease followed. The defenders held out as long as they could, but there was no hope of reinforcement. After weeks of suffering, Ezzelino breached the walls. What followed wasn’t a battle. It was a message.

The sun sets over Padua like a dying ember, bathing the city in a dull, blood-tinged glow. The streets, once filled with the chatter of merchants and the clang of church bells, are now eerily silent—except for the screams. Ezzelino’s army has smashed through the city’s ancient walls, and what began as a military conquest has turned into a merciless purge. The citizens of Padua flee through narrow alleys, clutching their children, slipping on blood-slicked cobblestones. Smoke billows from homes set ablaze, swirling into the orange sky. The stench of death—fresh blood, burnt flesh, rotting waste—hangs over the city like a curse. Bodies lie in heaps, some decapitated, others twisted in unnatural contortions where they fell. Soldiers, many of them foreign mercenaries loyal only to gold and fear, drag women into the ruins. Screams echo from every quarter. At the centre of it all stands Ezzelino da Romano, dressed not in the armour of a warrior but in a simple black surcoat, as if mourning the very lives he is snuffing out. His eyes are devoid of compassion. Cold, calculating. He watches from the high steps of the civic palace, unmoved by the carnage unfolding below. His lips twitch into the barest smile when a rebel leader is dragged before him—beaten, bloodied, defiant. Without a word, Ezzelino nods once. The man’s throat is slit before he can beg for mercy. This is not a battle. It is a message. A spectacle of violence designed to erase opposition and memory alike. Padua—once a proud Guelph stronghold, a symbol of resistance to imperial control—has fallen to the cruel hand of a man many now call the Butcher of the March.

[Introduction to the Podcast]

Hi everyone, and welcome back to The Dark History Podcast, where we explore the darkest parts of human history. I hope you’re all doing well. I’m Rob, your host as always, and you’re listening to Season 4, Episode 13.

Today, we’re diving into the life of a man most people have never heard of—and honestly, that might be a blessing. His name was Ezzelino III da Romano, and in his time, he was feared like few others. This wasn’t just your typical medieval tyrant. He was something else. A man who used war not just to conquer, but to punish. A man whose appetite for cruelty seemed endless—mass executions, torture chambers, entire cities brought to their knees under his command. His enemies called him the Son of the Devil. Even Dante put him in Inferno. That tells you something. He didn’t rule an empire. He wasn’t a king. But for a few blood-soaked decades in the 13th century, Ezzelino held northern Italy in a chokehold. He rose to power during one of the most chaotic and divided times in European history—when Italy was split between warring factions, between popes and emperors, and city-states were constantly turning on one another. It was the perfect environment for a man like Ezzelino to thrive. But what made him truly terrifying wasn’t just the power he held. It was how he used it. He didn't kill to survive. He killed to send a message. He didn’t silence his enemies—he obliterated them. He turned political rivalry into a blood sport. So without further a do get close to the fire, we’re going to journey back to medieval Italy—to the siege towers and torture pits, the shifting alliances, shadowy deals and more dark history.

[Early Life and Rise to Power]

The story of Ezzelino da Romano doesn’t begin with violence. It begins with inheritance—of blood, of power, and of conflict. He was born in 1194, in the Veneto region of northern Italy, into the da Romano family—one of the many noble lineages who carved out influence in the fractured patchwork of Italian politics. His father, Ezzelino II, known as il Balbo—the Stammerer—was a minor lord, but a politically astute one. He held a small but strategically placed domain in the Trevisan March, an area caught in the jaws of two great powers: the Papacy in Rome, and the Holy Roman Empire to the north. These weren’t just rival governments. This was a long and bitter war for the soul of Italy. By the time Ezzelino was born, the entire peninsula was being torn apart by the ongoing feud between the Guelphs—supporters of the Pope—and the Ghibellines, who backed the Emperor. Towns changed sides with the wind. Families were split by loyalty. Blood was spilled in the name of ideology. And for families like the da Romanos, that instability wasn’t a threat—it was an opportunity. Ezzelino’s childhood was steeped in this chaos. He grew up inside fortress walls, raised not on poetry or faith, but on politics and violence. His father had already aligned their house with the Ghibellines, placing them in direct opposition to the Church. This meant enemies on all sides. Every alliance was temporary. Every feast could end in poison. Paranoia wasn’t a symptom—it was a survival tactic. He had at least two siblings we know of—Alberico and Cunizza. His brother would eventually follow a similar path of cruelty, aiding in his campaigns. But his sister... her story was very different. Cunizza was rebellious, passionate, and, according to Dante, ultimately redeemed. Ezzelino arranged her first marriage for political reasons, but she defied him—scandalously so—by eloping with a troubadour. He never forgave her. Some say he had her imprisoned. Others say she narrowly escaped death. Either way, Ezzelino saw love and personal freedom as threats to control. Even within his own family, loyalty was demanded—not earned. 

                                                                           The da Romanos were ambitious, but they were still minor players. That began to change when Ezzelino’s marriage was arranged to Selva, the illegitimate daughter of Frederick II, the Holy Roman Emperor himself. Whether the marriage was ever consummated is unclear. What is clear is that it brought Ezzelino closer to imperial power. And for him, that meant everything. Frederick II wasn’t a typical ruler. He was a brilliant and brutal man—ruthlessly intelligent, deeply cynical, and often at odds with the Church. To the Ghibellines, he was a messianic figure. To the Pope, he was the Antichrist. For Ezzelino, Frederick was something more: a model. A man who ruled through fear, loyalty, and total control. Ezzelino became one of his most devoted lieutenants, a servant of the empire who came to believe he had divine sanction to crush his enemies without mercy. By his early thirties, Ezzelino had begun carving out real power. Not through inheritance. Not through kindness. But through manipulation, intimidation, and well-timed violence. He wormed his way into the leadership of city after city—first as podestà (a kind of chief magistrate), then as overlord in everything but name. He took Verona, a crucial stronghold in the Veneto. Then Vicenza, and eventually Padua—though that conquest would come with more blood than anyone expected. But behind the titles and ceremonies was a man increasingly isolated. There are no records of warmth. No stories of kindness. No moments of hesitation. Only a growing appetite for control, and an ability to spot weakness and exploit it with surgical precision. He wasn’t loud or theatrical. He was quiet. Cold. Detached. The kind of man who could condemn a thousand people with a nod. Italy gave him the perfect stage. A place where violence was politics, and cruelty was just another tool of power. And Ezzelino? He learned to wield it better than almost anyone.

[The Reign of Terror]

By the mid-1230s, Ezzelino III da Romano had transformed from a political schemer into a feared warlord. His power base spread like a stain across the Veneto—Verona, Vicenza, Feltre, Belluno, Padua. But this wasn’t a peaceful transfer of power. Ezzelino didn’t win hearts. He broke bones. It started with Verona. A city already torn by factional rivalry, it was fertile ground for a man like Ezzelino. He entered as podestà, an appointed magistrate meant to mediate. Instead, he tightened his grip until the city was under his total control. The ruling council was gutted. Dissenters vanished. Guelph families were  exiled, dispossessed, or executed. Property was seized. Religious houses that questioned him were raided. He built up a private army loyal to him alone, including German mercenaries brought down from the Empire. These men had no local ties—no reason to hesitate. from there, the terror spread. In Vicenza, he lured his enemies into false negotiations, then had them arrested on the spot. Many were blinded, castrated, or had their tongues torn out. Others were simply beheaded in the public square. Entire families were wiped out—children included—not because they posed a threat, but because they might one day. He didn’t believe in leniency. He believed in erasure. He set up a network of prisons—real medieval hellholes. Dungeons where captives were shackled in darkness, starved, and left to rot. Those who weren’t executed outright were tortured slowly. Nails torn off. Eyes gouged. Skin flayed. Some were left hanging upside down until their bodies gave out. This wasn’t random cruelty. This was a system of terror—designed to paralyse rebellion through sheer dread. Ezzelino’s method was always the same: purge the elite, terrify the people, then declare loyalty to the Emperor. He kept cities in check with spies and informants. His secret police would intercept letters, monitor sermons, and listen for whispers of dissent. A joke at his expense could mean death. Loyalty was expected. Worship was preferred.

Then came Padua.

Padua was no backwater. It was a wealthy, educated city, loyal to the Pope and proud of its independence. But it stood in Ezzelino’s path. And he meant to make an example. In 1256, he laid siege to it—cutting off trade, food, and hope. Disease spread through the city. Citizens starved while Ezzelino’s forces camped outside, watching and waiting. When the walls were finally breached, what followed wasn’t a battle—it was a purge. Thousands were slaughtered in the streets. Homes were set ablaze with entire families still inside. Men were hacked down while trying to surrender. Women and children were cut apart, or worse. There are accounts—chilling ones—of pregnant women being disembowelled, of toddlers thrown into fires. Whether these were true or exaggerated, the result was the same: terror. Survivors were dragged before Ezzelino like animals. He personally condemned hundreds to death—some by sword, others by fire. His soldiers raped and tortured at will. In the central square, heads were piled into pyramids, as a warning to anyone who thought to resist. The city’s clergy were not spared. Priests who had dared to speak against him were mutilated and paraded through the streets. And it didn’t stop there.

                                                                                          After taking Padua, Ezzelino established what was essentially a totalitarian regime. He ruled not as a leader, but as an executioner. He carried a list of “enemies of the state,” and he worked through it methodically. One chronicler claimed that in just two years, he killed more than 11,000 people across the Veneto—most of them civilians. That number might be inflated, but the pattern is undeniable. He had families buried alive, walls constructed with the corpses of rebels, and prisoners burned slowly over days. In Verona, it’s said he had an entire convent of nuns executed for sheltering fugitives. Their bodies were dumped in a dry well, where they rotted in the summer heat. He didn’t kill in the heat of rage—he killed with purpose, with planning, with utter coldness. No one was untouchable. Not the nobility. Not the Church. Not his own family.

                                   When his sister Cunizza defied him, he reportedly had her imprisoned for years. Some say she barely survived. Others claim she escaped only by faking illness and bribing a guard. In any case, the man had no room for sentiment. His world was built on power, and anything that weakened it—even blood—was expendable. 

[Downfall and Death]

By the late 1250s, Ezzelino’s world was beginning to collapse. The once-loyal cities he had ruled with terror were seething with hatred. The people he had tormented for decades had not forgotten. And, crucially, his greatest ally—Emperor Frederick II—was dead. Without imperial backing, Ezzelino was exposed. The Papacy wasted no time. In 1254, Pope Alexander IV took the unprecedented step of preaching a crusade—not against heretics or infidels, but against Ezzelino himself. He was labelled a son of Satan, a heretic, and a butcher of Christians. The Pope’s words fanned the flames of revolt, and soon, cities across northern Italy began to rise. Verona, Vicenza, Padua—each one turned against the man who had once ruled them through fear. But Ezzelino would not go quietly.

                                                                                                     In 1258, he launched a final campaign to crush his enemies. He swept down into Lombardy with his remaining forces, hoping to reignite the old terror. His target: Milan, the heart of the Guelph coalition. He marched through territory that had once bowed to him—but now, he found walls barred and armies waiting. The   of fear, which had always been his weapon, was gone. Now, they were no longer afraid. They were angry. He burned villages on his way south. Executed captives. Maimed survivors. But it wasn’t enough. The coalition was vast—Milan, Brescia, Piacenza, Lodi, Parma—and they were better organized than ever before. The noose was tightening. In September 1259, Ezzelino’s army clashed with the Guelph coalition at the Battle of Cassano d’Adda, near Milan. His troops were tired, malnourished, and outnumbered. The battle was fierce and chaotic, but it quickly turned into a rout. Ezzelino was wounded—likely by an arrow or lance—and captured alive, dragged from the battlefield by the very men he had once terrorized. He was taken to Soncino, a fortress-prison. But even in defeat, he remained silent. He refused food. Refused treatment. Refused to speak. No apologies. No final words. Just a blank, withering stare. Over the next few days, his wounds festered. Fever set in. His strength ebbed. He let himself rot. When food was brought to him, he turned away. Some say he tried to starve himself in defiance. Others believe he simply welcomed death. By the end of the week, Ezzelino III da Romano was dead.

             His body was displayed, publicly, as proof that the tyrant was finally gone. His enemies spat on it. Crowds cheered. Bells rang throughout the cities he once ruled. Verona, Vicenza, and Padua held masses of thanksgiving. People tore down the walls of his prisons and burned his effigies in the streets. Some even exhumed the bones of those he had killed, giving them proper burials at last. But no monument was ever built for Ezzelino. No noble tomb. No statue. Only fear remained—and stories. The kind whispered by candlelight, long after midnight. And yet, even in death, his shadow lingered. Chroniclers couldn’t agree on how many had died under his reign. Some claimed it was thousands, others said tens of thousands. His name became synonymous with cruelty. In The Divine Comedy, Dante placed him in the Seventh Circle of Hell, standing in a river of boiling blood with the other tyrants, doomed to drown in the violence he had unleashed.

No repentance. No redemption.

Just blood. And silence.

[Reflection]

Thank you for taking the time out of your day to listen to this dark episode.  Sometimes, I feel figures from history deserve to be dragged back into the light and Ezzelino is one of them. As ive stated Ezzelino III da Romano isn’t a household name. He doesn’t sit alongside the more famous tyrants of history. But in terms of sheer brutality—of cold, relentless violence—he absolutely should. He ruled not through loyalty or charisma, but by turning fear into an institution. He mutilated dissenters, slaughtered entire families, burned cities, and left mass graves wherever he went. And he did it all not in the name of religion or ideology, but for dominance—pure and simple. What strikes me most about Ezzelino is the scale of his cruelty, and how methodical it was. There’s something almost mechanical about the way he crushed opposition. He didn’t lose control. He was in control. That makes it worse. He knew exactly what he was doing. He turned cities into prisons. He created a system of torture and surveillance. He weaponised silence, fear, and execution as tools of governance. And he got away with it for decades. Until, eventually, it turned. And that’s the one glimmer of something in this story. That no matter how long a tyrant stands, they always fall. Ezzelino’s end was lonely, squalid, and forgotten—rotting away in a cell while the world rejoiced. No hero’s death. No last words. Just the same silence he forced on others. In the end, his memory became a warning. Even Dante condemned him to eternal torment. And maybe that’s all he deserves—a place in the darkest corner of our history, remembered not for greatness, but as a brutal cautionary tale. Anyway, If you enjoy the show, please consider leaving a review—it really helps us reach more listeners by boosting our visibility in the algorithm. if you think friends or family might enjoy the podcast, don’t hesitate to share it with them. You’ll find links to all our socials below.

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