The Black Death: The Plague That Transformed the Medieval World
- Davit Grigoryan
- Apr 14
- 10 min read
The "Black Death" of the 14th century was not just a pandemic, but a turning point in human history. Sweeping through like a fiery whirlwind from the Mongolian steppes to European capitals, the plague claimed 60 million lives, but its true legacy was the collapse of feudalism, a crisis for the church, and the birth of a new world. Why did the marmot hunters in the Gobi become unwitting culprits of the disaster? How did ships carrying corpses turn the Mediterranean into a graveyard? Why did doctors wear masks with beaks, and peasants wear the dresses of their deceased masters? This article chronicles the apocalypse that overturned the economy, culture, and science, laying the foundations for modern Europe. The survivors became different—and this is our chance to understand how catastrophes change civilizations.
Where did the "Black Death" come from?
Imagine the Mongolian steppe in the year 1320. A hunter is skinning a tarbagan marmot—a common task for those who value its tender meat and warm fur. But this time, something goes wrong. Within a few days, the man's lymph nodes swell, his fever rises, and his skin darkens from internal bleeding. He doesn’t know that he has just set in motion the deadliest pandemic in history.
Scientists still debate where exactly the plague first broke out. Historian Philip Slavin blames the Tian Shan mountains, claiming that the Yersinia pestis bacteria had been dormant there for centuries. Others, like Christopher Atwood, link the outbreak to the Mongols—after conquering southwestern China (Yunnan), they may have disturbed Himalayan rodents. But the most chilling theory points to an ecological disaster in the Gobi Desert.
The droughts of the 1320s turned the already arid steppes into a scorched wasteland. Marmots and pikas, deprived of food, swarmed toward human settlements. The Mongols, for whom hunting these animals was a tradition, didn’t realize they had become targets for plague-infected fleas. Overcrowding, hungry migrating animals, and the active trade in furs created the perfect storm.
The Mongol Empire, which had united half the world, unknowingly became an ally of the plague. Armies, couriers, and caravans carrying silk and spices acted as high-speed transport for the disease. By 1331, China was already in agony—according to chronicles, 90% of the population in Hebei province had perished. The records from Henan describe an even worse catastrophe—since 1313, not a single intact village remained.
The Arab historian al-Maqrizi would later write about "three hundred tribes" that vanished from the Mongolian steppes. Among the victims were the young Khan Toghon Temür and his heirs. Historians still debate whether the plague was to blame. Chinese chronicles are vague, referring to any disaster as a "miasmic epidemic." Even epidemiologist Wu Liande, after studying 223 ancient outbreaks, could definitively identify the plague only in records from 1641.
By 1335, caravans had carried the plague to India. The army of Sultan Muhammad Tughluq, stationed near Deogiri, was almost wiped out. Indian chronicles blame cholera, while European scholars suspect the plague. Such confusion was common for the time—medieval scribes were more likely to describe "bloody rains" and "fiery whirlwinds" than actual symptoms.
While scholars debated, ordinary people created legends. European merchants spread terrifying tales of the "three days of apocalypse" in India—snakes supposedly rained from the sky, followed by a foul wind that scorched all life. The Florentine Matteo Villani, whose uncle died of the plague, recorded an even more outlandish story: in Mecca, a three-day downpour of venomous creatures allegedly damaged the very tomb of Muhammad.
Even in the 21st century, some still question, “Did the plague strike Asia?” Science has provided the answer. In 2013, geneticists examined remains from 40 mass graves—from China to Europe. All of them found the same bacterium: Yersinia pestis. DNA doesn’t lie—the plague began in Asia and ended in Europe, claiming 60 million lives.
Causes of the spread of the plague
Imagine Europe in the 1340s: cities where people huddled together in filthy houses, peasants prayed for deliverance from endless rains, and soldiers roamed the streets—hungry, angry, ready to loot for a piece of bread. This was the perfect recipe for disaster.
It all began with the sun "taking offense" at humans. The 14th century brought the Little Ice Age: solar activity dropped, the Gulf Stream slowed, and Europe was flooded with endless rains. In 1333, hurricanes lashed the land in China, washing away entire villages. Crops failed, and mice and rats fled to human dwellings—straight into the claws of the plague bacterium.
But the worst hit was Europe. After the droughts of the 1300s, came cold and flooding: since 1312, the rains never stopped. Fields turned into swamps, and grain rotted. The Great Famine of 1315–1317 began. People ate bark, cats, and even each other. By 1325, the survivors were so weakened that any disease—whether leprosy or the plague—struck them down like grass.
The plague was aided by... humans. The Hundred Years' War between England and France, the conflicts between Italian cities, Mongol raids, armies, refugees, and bandits roamed everywhere. They brought lice, fleas, and rats with them. And in the cities, where terrified peasants were herded, there was horrendous overcrowding. Imagine: ten people living in a cramped room, with piles of garbage nearby, and rats scurrying under the floor. The Bubonic plague would appear here before the priest could finish his prayer.
"The body is the vessel of sin. The dirtier it is, the closer it is to God!"—This was the reasoning of monks, who took pride in not bathing for years. Saint Agnes, it is said, never dipped into water once in her life. City dwellers bathed a little more often, every few months. The streets, however, were a dump: trash was thrown straight out of windows, and the bodies of animals rotted in the rain.
But the main allies of the plague were the rats. There were so many of them that a 15th-century Czech medical treatise seriously advised: "If a rat bites you on the face, immediately apply to the wound..." (followed by an absurd remedy). Fleas from the infected rodents would jump onto humans, and death began its dance.
Doctors treated the plague with bloodletting, crushed emeralds, and prayers. No one connected the disease to rodents or filth. Instead of quarantine, there was panic-driven flight: the wealthy fled to their estates, spreading the infection further. The Church blamed everything on "God's wrath," while flagellants whipped themselves in the town squares, worsening the chaos.
The plague was not a coincidence. Climatic collapse + wars + poor sanitation + blind faith—all of this created a hellish cocktail. When a Genoese ship brought the "Black Death" to Messina in 1347, Europe was already dry tinder. All that was left was to wait for the spark to turn into a fire.
How the "Black Death" Conquered the World
Imagine: the year is 1338, Lake Issyk-Kul. In a Nestorian community, people are dying in large numbers. Gravestones with inscriptions "died of the plague"—the first ominous beacons of the coming catastrophe. From here, deep in Central Asia, the plague began its deadly march.
By 1346, the epidemic had reached the Golden Horde. Sarai—the rich capital of the Khans—became a ghost town. Chronicles report: "There was no one to bury the dead." But then came a paradox: the feud between the Horde and Rus saved the northern lands. The plague turned south, toward Crimea.
The Genoese fortress of Kaffa in Crimea became a fateful crossroads. According to legend, Khan Janibek threw the bodies of those who died from the plague over the walls. Panic swept through the city. When the Genoese fled by ship, they carried not only goods but also the killer fleas. Thus, the "black fleet" sailed to Europe.
October 1347. Genoese galleys with bodies on their decks storm into the Sicilian port of Messina. "People died like flies," wrote the chronicler, "even relatives were afraid to approach the bodies." The city perished within weeks. Refugees, in their desperation to flee, spread the infection across the entire island. Catania, Syracuse, Trapani—these city names became synonymous with death.
Genoa and Marseille, trying to protect themselves, shot burning arrows at the ships. But the plague had already seeped into the ports. By the spring of 1348, Venice had lost 60% of its population, and in Avignon—the papal capital—bodies were thrown into the Rhône. Pope Clement VI consecrated the river as a "brotherly grave."
1349, England. King Edward III flees from London, abandoning his subjects. "In the villages, only crows and empty houses remained," wrote contemporaries. The Scots, mocking their enemies, themselves fell into the trap: the plague decimated their camps in Selkirk Forest.
By 1353, the epidemic had reached Rus'. Pskov, Novgorod, Moscow. Grand Prince Simeon the Proud buried his sons and died himself. The chronicles describe the nightmare: "A man coughed up blood—on the third day, he was dead. The priests couldn’t keep up with the last rites."
Norwegian fishermen found a drifting ship with a cargo of wool... and corpses. After taking the loot, they brought the plague to Bergen. From there, it spread to Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. Even the Viking settlements in Greenland, cut off by ice, turned into ghost towns.
By 1353, the plague, having passed over 15 million corpses, finally quieted down. But the world was no longer the same: abandoned cities, deserted fields, broken kings. The "Black Death" didn’t just kill—it rewrote the map of Europe.
How was the plague treated in the Middle Ages?
Imagine: the year is 1348, the streets of Paris. A doctor in a bird-beak mask, soaked in rosemary, prods the swelling of a dying person with a cane. "Apply to the buboes the skin of a frog!" he shouts, but keeps his distance. This was the "medicine" of the time of the Black Death.
14th-century medicine was a hostage to religion. Universities considered treating the body "sinful"—the soul needed saving! A Parisian doctor, upon entering a house, would first ask, "Has the patient confessed?" If not, they called a priest, not a doctor. Surgeons, who worked with their hands, were even considered "dirty craftsmen"—their guilds forbade them from mixing with "learned" doctors.
Scholars debated how the plague spread. Some believed in tiny "contagious bugs" (the precursor to microbes!) and advised isolation. Others blamed "miasmas"—poisonous vapors from swamps or... from the planet Saturn. To purify the air, cities fired cannons, drove herds of horses, and bred spiders—supposedly to absorb the poison. In homes, goats were kept, and the Crimean Tatars threw dead dogs onto the streets—" to counteract the plague's stench."
The arsenal of doctors resembled a surreal recipe:
Cauterizing the buboes with a hot iron (as practiced by the "father of surgery" Guy de Chauliac).
Powdered emeralds—jewels "pulled out the poison."
Dried frogs on wounds—their "magical power" fought the infection.
"French theriac"—a mixture of opium, wine, and 60 herbs, which was drunk, sniffed, and applied to everything.
The most desperate resorted to "sympathetic magic": they applied magnets to their bodies or sat for hours in latrines—believing the stench would "ward off the miasmas."
Pope Clement VI hired the first "plague doctors." Their costume became the prototype of PPE:
A leather cloak down to the feet, soaked in wax.
A beak-shaped mask, stuffed with incense and herbs—a "filter" against the infection.
A wooden cane to push away the sick without touching them.
But the plague doctors often died: wine with spices ("disinfection" medieval style) and herbs didn’t help. However, their image became a symbol of the absurd battle between science and death.
While Europe prayed, Venice invented survival protocols:
Ships were isolated for 40 days on the island of Lazzaretto (hence "quarantine" — quaranta giorni).
Burial teams collected bodies from boats, shouting, "Dead bodies!"
Taverns and brothels were closed to avoid gatherings.
Debtors were released from prisons to help with burials.
These measures saved the city from chaos. Doge Andrea Dandolo, unlike the kings, didn’t flee, and Venice became a model for Europe.
Medieval medicine resembled a theater of the absurd: priests with relics argued with doctors in beaked masks, while the sick died under the ringing of church bells. But it was during this time that the first seeds of epidemiology were sown: quarantine, isolation, and sanitation. The plague taught humanity that even in chaos, one can seek logic — even if it’s through toads, magnets, and incense.
The world after the "Black Death"
Imagine Europe in the 1350s: fields overgrown with weeds, wolves howling in abandoned villages, and surviving peasants bargaining with barons for payment. The plague not only killed millions, but it also turned the world upside down.
After the plague, Europe resembled scorched earth. Normandy lost 57% of its population, and packs of wolves roamed around Paris. Cities were deserted: there was no one to work in the guilds, and churches stood empty. But the survivors suddenly became heirs: the poor inherited their relatives' lands, and servants paraded in the clothes of their deceased masters. "The common folk demand triple wages and exquisite dishes!" — exclaimed a Florentine chronicler.
Feudal structures cracked. There was a shortage of labor — peasants dictated the terms. In England, the "Statute of Laborers" was passed, prohibiting wage increases, but the laws didn’t work: peasants fled to those who paid more. Western Europe abandoned serfdom, while Eastern Europe tightened the screws. This division shaped the future: the West moved towards capitalism, the East towards centuries of slavery.
The authority of the Church collapsed. Priests, who had promised protection, were the first to die. People sought salvation in mysticism: they believed in witches, demons, and the "dances of death" depicted on frescoes. Flagellants roamed Europe, whipping themselves until they bled, while artists painted God throwing plague arrows at people. From the ashes of fear, heresies were born — the forerunners of the Reformation.
Grain fields turned into pastures — livestock required fewer hands. In cities, machines began to be invented: the shortage of workers pushed technical progress forward. Moneylenders lowered interest rates, land became cheaper, and laws forbade wearing trains "inappropriate to one's status" — but who was listening to the decrees now?
The plague became the muse for creators. Boccaccio described it in "The Decameron," Petrarch mourned his deceased Laura, and Bruegel depicted the "Triumph of Death" — skeletons dancing on the ruins of civilization. Even the children's rhyme "Ring Around the Rosie" may echo the plague's buboes and funeral pyres.
The plague did not disappear forever. It returned until the 18th century: London in 1665, Marseille in 1720, Moscow in 1771. But the most important change was in Europe's DNA. Those who survived were the ones whose blood happened to resist the bacteria. Social upheavals, the Reformation, the scientific revolution — all these were the seeds that sprouted through the ashes of the "Black Death."
The plague taught humanity that after the end, there is always a beginning. Fragile, like spring ice, but full of new possibilities.
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