The Erfurt Latrine Disaster

Join Kelli as she goes over a very stinky situation that happened in 1184 in Erfurt, part of the Holy Roman Empire and home base of King (and later Emperor) Henry VI.

As Henry gathered some squabbling nobles to deal with a petty land dispute, the building they were in collapsed under the weight of 60+ people. And two stories below, in the basement of the building, was a cesspit full of... well, you know.

It was a putrid predicament, a malodorous mess, a nauseating nightmare. Get ready for another gross episode with lots of tangents and, somehow, yet another reference to the Protestant Reformation.

Transcript

The Erfurt Latrine Disaster
Intro
Welcome to A Popular History of Unpopular Things, a podcast that covers the… unpopular stories from history - tales about disease, death, and destruction. I like learning about all things bloody, gross, mysterious, and weird.

So if you looked at the title of this episode and thought to yourself - latrine, as in the toilet? - you might have had two thoughts. 
There’s no way Kelli is doing an episode involving a toilet, latrine must mean something else. Or
Kelli would absolutely do something gross like an episode involving toilets.

Aaaaand the latter is correct. Today’s episode is, in fact, about a disaster involving a toilet.

And better yet - it’s a Medieval disaster involving a toilet!

In the summer of 1184, German nobles met up at the Petersberg Citadel, or St. Peter’s Church, in Erfurt [air-fuurt] to deal with some political disputes. In attendance was King Henry VI of Germany, who would later go on to be a Holy Roman Emperor. He’s known for beginning Germany’s Crusade, which took place between the third and fourth crusades, and he’s also the guy who captured and then ransomed the beloved English King Richard the Lionheart. More on that later.

But before all of his work as the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, he was a German King who needed to keep his noblemen in line. And in 1184, he found himself mediating a land dispute at Erfurt.

But unfortunately for many of the nobles in attendance, the floor was built over a cesspit. And under the weight of all those in attendance, it collapsed.

In today’s episode, we’re going to talk all about the Erfurt Latrine Disaster – the moment in Medieval history when a bunch of nobles drowned in a pit of excrement and waste.

This… will be a gross episode. So buckle up, maybe don’t eat anything for the next 25 or so minutes, and let’s get started!

Historical Context
I want to begin the way I traditionally begin an episode, which is to say I want to talk about the historical context. For those of you who are new to the APHOUT podcast, historical context is what I consider to be one of the most important aspects of doing history. The context gives us a better appreciation for how and why things happen. We need to know what led to the event in question to better understand it. Learning about things in isolation, in bubbles, doesn’t give us the full story – we need to connect everything to the broader picture.

So for today’s episode, that means we need to know what events led to all of these men getting together at Erfurt to sort out their disputes. We also need to know about medieval buildings and sanitation architecture – or, what are cesspits, and why do they exist? How does one end up under the floorboards of this building in Erfurt?

Let’s do the non-poopy history first - why was there a meeting called at Erfurt in the first place?

And for that, let’s look deeper into Henry VI’s life.

Oh – short tangent – there are going to be a lot of tangents in today’s episodes. Like the good ol’ days. It’s one of those meandering topics that has my mind wandering all over the place. A tangent about tangents… that might be a new low for me.

Now Henry VI became famous for his own exploits, but he was also the son of a very famous father – none other than Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa himself, so nicknamed by the Italians because of his distinct red beard. Barba Rossa. 

Funny that the Italian nickname is what stood out for this German Emperor. I read that they did call him Kaiser Rotbart, or “Emperor Redbeard,” back home, but Barbarossa is what stuck. Probably because of Barbarossa’s intense campaigns in Italy. Four campaigns in Italy, to be precise.

Now I just got done doing a load of research about Stalingrad, the WWII battle, so in my head I immediately went to Operation Barbarossa, Hitler’s first failed attempt to invade and destroy the Soviet Union. Operation Barbarossa was in fact named after the Emperor. And there’s a reason for that.

Barbarossa (the man) launched the third crusade in 1189 to take back Jerusalem from Saladin, the founder of the Ayyubid Dynasty, sultan of Egypt and Syria, and de facto Muslim leader of the crusading states in the eastern Mediterranean. The Christians “won” the first crusade in 1099 and claimed the holy city of Jerusalem, but only for 88 years. Saladin recaptured the city in 1187. Incensed that the holy city was no longer in Catholic or Christian hands, Barbarossa decided he would spearhead the effort to take it back in what would become the third crusade.

Operation Barbarossa, Hitler’s 1941 failed plan to destroy the Soviet Union, harkened back to that idea of the Germans marching into the East and claiming land they believed should be theirs.

But it was a failure for both leaders.

Emperor Frederick Barbarossa died while on his crusade. And it wasn’t even a cool death, like in battle fighting his enemies. He drowned in June of 1190, aged 67, in the Saleph River in modern-day Turkey on his way over to the Holy Land.

Here’s a passage from a writer known as Ansbert, who wrote a contemporary account called The History of the Expedition of Emperor Frederick. Quote!

On June 10 [1190] the advance unit of the army camped on the plains of Seleucea. Up to this point the whole army of the Holy Cross,  the rich and the poor, the sick and those who seemed healthy, ­had journeyed through the glare of the sun and the burning beat of summer along a torturous road which led them across rocky cliffs accessible only to birds and mountain goats. 

The Emperor, who had shared in all the dangers, wished both to moderate the inordinate heat and to avoid climbing the mountain peak. Accordingly, he attempted to swim across the very swift river. Wise though he was in other ways, the Emperor foolishly tried his strength against the current and power of the river. Although everyone tried to stop him, he entered the water and plunged into a whirlpool. He, who had often escaped great dangers, perished miserably.

End quote.

Well that sucks.

And as result, his eldest surviving son, Henry VI, became Emperor soon after. And Henry later captured Richard the Lionheart on his way back from that same crusade, ransomed him for a boat load of money, and ended up going on a “German” crusade himself with the money he raised.

This was all just a long tangent, really, because what I want to talk about happened well before all of that. I guess it’s just good to know that this is a very famous family. And one that seems to struggle with being submerged in liquids.

On to the non-tangential historical context.

When Henry was only 4 years old, his red-bearded father had him elected as King of the Romans. Germany is not a unified country yet… that doesn’t happen until 1871. So while I and others might refer to the people who live in the Holy Roman Empire as Germans or Germanic, “Germany” is not one unified thing, and technically doesn’t exist. It’s the same way we might use the word “Celts” to refer to various Celtic peoples, though they weren’t one unified group. Or the Greeks, too. Ancient Greece wasn’t one unified country; the Greek city-states were independent.

Doesn’t matter. Kelli, focus on the Holy Roman Empire.

Now the various states within the Holy Roman Empire all had their own leaders and nobles. It was a decentralized monarchy, composed of hundreds of principalities, duchies, free cities, and territories. 

The King of the Romans, which was what Henry VI became at the wise old age of four, was essentially the emperor-elect job. High-ranking princes from wealthy families would elect this King, and he would later go on to serve as the Emperor when the position opened up.

Anyways, in 1184, 18-year-old Henry VI was King of the Romans. And part of his job was to mediate disputes between his nobles and keep the peace, which was probably its own full time job. There were constant squabbles and disputes between neighboring principalities. 

In 1184, there was a long-time dispute coming to a head between the Lugwig III, Landgrave of Thuringia, and Conrad of Wittelsbach, the Archbishop of Mainz. Thuringen is how you’d say it in Germany. The English-speaking world commonly says Thuringia, and I’ll stick with that because sometimes my northeast American diction has a hard time with German pronunciation.

And for those of you who are geography-minded, modern-day Thuringia is a region more or less in the center of Germany, right above Bayern. Think of it like a state, or a county. Germany has 16 of them. Mainz is not its own state, but is the capital of the Rhineland-Palatinate state, west of Thuringia.

They are relatively close to one another, is what I’m trying to convey.

Back to the Medieval period.

So Lugwig and Conrad were in the midst of a relatively standard land dispute. This happened - and still happens - all the time. Every conflict ever, big or small, is about land. Either the land itself, what the land represents, what resources are in that land… it’s all about land. 

Now we don’t actually know what the land dispute was about, that part has been lost to history, as far as we know. But things were so tense between these two rival families that the King of the Romans had to step in. So Henry VI called for a Hoftag, or informal assembly, on July 25th.

Erfurt was chosen as the location for this informal hoftag to sort out the Thuringian and Mainzer land dispute because it was ruled by Henry’s family line, the Hohenstaufens. If that family name sounds familiar to you, it’s because the Hohenstaufens are known for growing the Holy Roman Empire to its largest size, and they also clashed quite frequently with the Pope.

Speaking of clashing with the Pope - if you’ve been listening for a while, you know I can’t help mentioning the Protestant Reformationnnnn!!! Also, this episode is coming out on Easter in 2026. Feels like I need to mention Catholicism. It just feels right.

Now it’s not until 1517 that the Protestant Reformation breaks out – in the Holy Roman Empire – and many of those same principalities turned against the Roman Catholic Church in favor of Protestantism.

Fun side tangent fact…thing… Erfurt isn’t just the place where nobles drowned in poo, which I swear we’re getting to soon. It’s also considered one of the early centers of Protestantism. Martin Luther studied there and was ordained in Erfurt’s Catholic Cathedral in 1507. After the Protestant Reformation began, Protestant churches opened up, though it’s worth noting that there was still a considerable Catholic influence in the city. Today, it’s got a mix of both.

But anyways.

The Hohenstaufens were in power in Erfurt, and our young King Henry VI was the ruler there, which made it the perfect place for the hoftag. Instead of going to either Thuringia or Mainz, why not make these quarreling nobles shlep on over to the King’s digs and lay out their petty land squabbles there?

In attendance was Louis Landgrave, Archbishop Conrad, members of Henry’s court, local nobles and bishops, a spattering of knights belonging to the aforementioned nobles, and some other prominent Erfurt citizens. Henry decided to meet in a two-story building near the Erfurt Cathedral, on the upper floor. Some reports claim that it was within the Petersberg Citadel itself, or a building on the grounds. 

But regardless of which particular building it was, this was where things went wrong.

Medieval Cesspits
The support beams that held up the top floor were rotten through. Perhaps with a few people up there, you wouldn’t notice, and there wouldn’t be any additional damage. But with dozens of people? I’ve read estimates of anywhere between 60-100 people were involved in this incident, although the lower end is more realistic. 

But before we talk about the long, hard fall into the bog of eternal stench, let’s take a quick look at Medieval architecture. Including the concept of a cesspit.

A cesspit, often interchangeably called a cesspool, is a giant pit designed to hold our waste. There’s no nicer way to say it. It’s literally a giant shaft or pit dug into the earth designed to hold everything we expel out the backside, like a port-a-potty, but the waste stays in the ground. And they were perfectly normal parts of Medieval life.

But I don’t want you to think it’s because human society hadn’t figured out sanitation yet.

Let’s rewind!

If you remember much from your ancient history course, if you even took one, there were six main population centers that developed from small agricultural villages into the first urban societies. The first two are the often-overlooked American ones: the Olmecs of Mesoamerica, and the Andean civilizations of the Caral-Supe. In Afroeurasia, we’ve got the Mesopotamians on the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, which is mostly in modern-day Iraq, the Egyptians on the Nile, the ancient Chinese on the Yellow River, and the Indus River Valley civilization… on the Indus River in modern-day Pakistan and India. 

It’s that last one – the Indus River Valley civilization – where we get our best examples of urban sewage systems. 

The two main cities, Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro, were organized in a grid pattern with sewage infrastructure in place. They had toilets in their homes, drainpipes, and covered street drains that lined their streets, made out of brick and mortar. The waste would flow from the toilets, to the street drains, and out of the city centers into the nearby Indus River, keeping waste and the diseases associated with it away from the crowded population.

The Indus River Valley civilization existed between 2600 and 1900 BCE.

My point is that it’s not like sewage systems, toilets, and sanitation practices didn’t exist in 1184. They just weren’t established in northern Europe. There was no pre-existing infrastructure for underground drainage or sewer pipes. 

In fact, and this is pretty gross, London got its first proper, modern sewage system… in the 19th century. There was an event known as the “Great Stink of London” in 1858 where a sweltering summer combined with too much sewage waste led to a very stinky situation in the area of the Thames River that runs next to Parliament. It was so bad, a chief engineer – Sir Joseph Bazalgette – was brought in to design an underground sewage system. I did an episode on that – it was part of the London Cholera Epidemic, my eighth episode! 

Eighth episode. And to think this is episode 77… I’ve come so far.

Anyway, as cities quickly grew throughout northern Europe, things were just being… built. There wasn’t a lot of long-term planned sanitation infrastructure going on.

So the important question at hand is where would the poop go? 

Well, a lot of times, the business would be done in a bucket – a chamber pot, they were called – and a household servant would be responsible for emptying and cleaning it daily. Sometimes, the chamber pot would just be dumped out the window into the street or tossed in the river, if you were close enough. Or, if you were fancy, you had access to a cesspit and not just a bucket in the gross corner of a room.

The contents of the cesspit was known as “nightsoil.” People would do their business in rudimentary toilets – sometimes literally just holes in a stool positioned over a hole in the ground – that would send it all down into a cesspit, which would later be cleaned out by the nightsoil men, also known as rakers, who would physically remove the poo and take it somewhere else so it didn’t clog the streets. And it was a relatively well-paid job. Sometimes the cesspit would be in the basement of a house, or sometimes your waste would tumble into a community cesspit that contained everyone’s shared excrement. 

It’s gross. I know. Try not to think too hard about what I’m saying, don’t visualize it… maybe that will help.

Castles had cool toilets. I’ve seen some, like at the Tower of London, that are just… holes built into the side of the brickwork, and you just… poop into the open air. Normally it would fall into a cesspit, moat, or river. Depends on the location. Sometimes, those holes weren’t for the poop, but to help air out the room where it’s all going down.

And in case you’re weird like me, you might be wondering where the poop goes. I said that people get paid to collect it, but where do they take it? I mean it can’t just sit in cesspits forever, right? If you live with a septic tank instead of a sewage system, you know that eventually that thing needs to be serviced and emptied. It doesn’t magically disappear into some fecal backrooms. Where all the missing socks from the dryer also end up.

Well, before we had chemical fertilizers, human waste was often used. Farmers would use the nutrients in the waste in their fields. So the rakers would bring the waste outside city walls to where the farms were, and in this way, it was… recycled.

This is why it's important to wash your fruits and veggies, people. 

Now some cesspits were just… simply… covered up and left there. The ones that were difficult to access, or too full. And new cesspits were dug underground nearby. So just… underground landfills of poop, left to seep into the soil if the brick lining wasn’t done properly.

That reminds me of my episode on Paris’ Catacombs. They had a contaminated soil problem too, and at one point, the basement walls of a church caved in with dead bodies and decomposition goop. That was episode 16, also a pretty gross one. 

Now sometimes, collected nightsoil was just tossed in the river. Out of sight, out of mind. Until everyone is throwing poop in the river, and it becomes polluted, and then you’ve got cholera outbreaks… 

Ooh, fun fact. You might think that in our modern world, we wouldn’t still have a problem with raw sewage in our natural water systems. You would be wrong. The River Thames in London is still heavily contaminated with feces. The Thames Water Company over the past few years has been fined hundreds of millions of pounds for illegal sewage discharges. And do you remember the 2024 Paris Olympics? The Seine was so heavily contaminated with E. coli, which only really originates in one place, and the levels were so high that events were postponed and training sessions cancelled until they could sanitize it.

And that’s just in the Western world. Polluted water sources are a global issue, and there are billions of people who don’t have access to clean water.

Ok. Too much poop talk. My broader point here is that cesspits – literal pits of human feces underneath your home – were normal Medieval sanitation practices.

And there was one in the basement of the building in Erfurt where Henry VI had about 60 odd people meet to discuss a minor land dispute.

Which is a totally normal thing for 1184.

But unfortunately… the building was falling apart. And below the floorboards was something, in my opinion, much worse than the Pit of Sarlacc on Tatooine.
Into the Pit
As upwards of 60 people crowded into the top floor of the building next to the Cathedral in Erfurt, assembling to meet with their King Henry VI, the rotten beams finally broke, and the floor fell out from underneath them. And once the top floor caved in, the weight of all those people falling caused parts of the main floor to collapse as well… Right into the cesspit underneath.

There were a few possible outcomes here. In no particular order: people either fell two stories into the muck and drowned in a combination of excrement and urine, they might have fallen onto the first floor and gotten crushed by the debris and woodwork on the way down, according to some sources they might have asphyxiated by the noxious fumes and stench –I mean, it’s just pure, rotting sewage down there, it’s not been treated with anything – or… maybe they managed to not fall in by grabbing hold of something.

Now luckily for our young King, he didn’t fall into the waste. He and Archbishop Conrad of Mainz were apparently sitting in a stone window alcove, so they avoided the fall by grabbing hold of some iron window railings, and the pair were not subjected to the horrors of the cesspit. They later had to be rescued, because there was no longer a floor or stairs for them to use to climb down.

The other named NPC here, Ludwig Landgrave of Thuringia, did fall into the pit. He was rescued, but I don’t know if any others were. He just lucked out, I suppose. I’ll be honest that the source material here might suffer from a game of telephone. You know, where the story changes slightly with each iteration, so the story itself becomes a little warped? There’s little information about it. We know it happened, but a lot of the original source material has been lost.

Anyways, an estimated 60 people died in the Erfurt Latrine Disaster. Not all from drowning in waste, but still. 60 people.

Ooh, a fun mini bonus story. Erfurt might be the largest cesspit-related death event in history, but it’s not the only one. 

In 1326, an Englishman named Richard the Raker was doing his business on the toilet, but the thing broke, and he fell through the floor into his own cesspit. He was a raker, so he was paid to empty out excrement from other peoples’ pits and latrines… but I guess he hadn’t done his own in a long time. Poor Richard the Raker drowned in his own filth. Which is a horrible way to go.

So. Did anything change as a result of this malodorous meeting at Erfurt?

Ehh… not really.

The Great Stink I mentioned earlier, that impacted London in the 19th century? That, in combination with a nasty cholera outbreak, led to some serious sanitation reforms.

This event? Not so much.

Reportedly, King Henry – who, remember, is only 18 at this point – was so impacted by this tragedy that he just… left? Erfurt? He was in the middle of some military manuevers in Italy at the time when he had to come home to deal with this situation, so he just returned to what he was doing. There was no decision made in the land dispute, as far as we know. They met to deal with it, a bunch of people fell in human waste and died, and the survivors just… dispersed. 

And I don’t blame them. I’d also want to forget the whole thing happened. You wouldn’t want to be known as the King, later Emperor, who survived the latrine disaster, now would you?

It’s a good thing Henry survived the incident, though. He went on to do some powerful things as the Holy Roman Emperor, like capturing Richard the Lionheart and using the ransom money to fund his own crusade - what we call the German Crusade.

Unfortunately, like father like son, Henry VI also died while on his crusade. Not in a river this time, but likely of malaria while on route to the Holy Lands. He died in Sicily in 1198, age 31. 

Maybe his death was a final destination situation, where he was meant to die in the latrine disaster at Erfurt, but he managed to escape death. So he was killed by malaria, a disease which… among other symptoms… causes diarrhea. Maybe he never escaped that fate, after all.
Outro
Thanks for joining me for this episode of A Popular History of Unpopular Things! My name is Kelli Beard, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this episode on the Erfurt Latrine Disaster. Thank you for tuning into my podcast, and check out some of the other episodes if you want more!

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Be sure to like and follow my podcast, available wherever you listen, so you know when new episodes are dropped. And stay tuned to get a popular history of unpopular things.