The Erfurt Latrine Disaster: Holy Crap, A Royal Flush!

When 60 Medieval Nobles Drowned in Human Waste

A catastrophic floor collapse during a high-stakes political meeting in 1184 Germany sent dozens of the Holy Roman Empire’s most powerful men plummeting into a cesspit, creating one of history’s most grotesque mass casualties.

Medieval Europe wasn’t exactly known for its stellar safety standards, but even by 12th-century measures, what happened in Erfurt, Germany on July 26, 1184 stands out as uniquely horrifying. A gathering meant to settle a simple land dispute instead became a nightmare that claimed the lives of some of the most powerful men in the Holy Roman Empire—and not in any way they could have imagined.

The Feuding Lords

The whole mess started with a pretty standard medieval squabble. Louis III, the Landgrave of Thuringia, and Conrad of Wittelsbach, Archbishop of Mainz, had been locked in a bitter land dispute that had dragged on for years. The exact details of their conflict have been lost to time, but it likely involved the usual medieval concerns: who controlled what territory, who had the right to build castles where, and who got to collect taxes from whom.

Both men were stubborn as mules. Louis III was known for his aggressive nature and willingness to fight anyone who got in his way. Conrad, meanwhile, had already proven his tenacity when he’d been removed as Archbishop in 1165 but simply refused to accept it, continuing to claim the title until his rival died and he could officially take it back.

By 1184, their feud had escalated to the point where it was disrupting the stability of the entire region. The Holy Roman Empire was a complex web of competing nobles and religious officials, and when disputes like this got out of hand, they had a way of dragging everyone else into the mess.

The King Steps In

Enter Henry VI, the 18-year-old King of Germany and future Holy Roman Emperor. Henry was already an experienced military leader despite his youth—he’d been accompanying his father Frederick Barbarossa on campaigns since he was a child. The kid knew how to handle conflict, and he’d been tasked by his father with keeping the peace while Frederick was busy with other imperial business.

Henry was passing through Thuringia on his way to deal with a military campaign in Poland when he decided enough was enough. The dispute between Louis and Conrad needed to end, and he was going to be the one to end it. He called for a formal assembly—a Hoftag—where he would mediate between the two men and hopefully get them to shake hands and move on.

Being a thorough sort, Henry didn’t just invite the two feuding parties. He extended invitations to nobles from across the Holy Roman Empire, figuring that having more witnesses and mediators would help ensure a lasting peace. Dozens of counts, bishops, and other high-ranking officials made their way to Erfurt for what they expected would be a routine diplomatic gathering.

The Fatal Meeting

The assembly was scheduled for July 25, 1184, the Feast of Saint James, with the main negotiations taking place the following day. The meeting location was the upper floor of a building near Erfurt Cathedral—historical sources disagree on whether it was the provost’s building or the bishop’s residence, but both were part of the Petersberg Citadel complex.

On the morning of July 26, the cream of medieval German society packed into that second-floor room. Henry VI took his place in a stone window alcove, while Archbishop Conrad joined him there to discuss the dispute. Louis III was somewhere in the crowd, along with counts, burgraves, and other nobles whose names read like a who’s who of 12th-century power.

The building was old, and its wooden support beams had seen better days. What happened next unfolded with terrifying speed.

The Collapse

The combined weight of all those nobles, their heavy medieval clothing, and their retainers proved too much for the rotting wooden floor. With a sickening crack, the entire floor gave way. Men, furniture, and debris crashed through to the ground floor—but the nightmare was just beginning.

The ground floor couldn’t handle the sudden impact of everything falling from above. It collapsed too, sending the survivors of the first fall plummeting again. This time, they landed in the building’s basement cesspit—the medieval equivalent of a sewer system where all the human waste from the building collected.

Medieval latrines were primitive affairs. Waste dropped through holes in floors above and accumulated in large pits below. These cesspits were rarely cleaned and often contained years’ worth of accumulated human excrement. The consistency was thick and viscous, almost like quicksand, making it nearly impossible to swim or escape once someone fell in.

The Carnage

The scene in that basement was beyond horrific. Some of the nobles had been killed outright by the fall or crushed by falling debris. But many more found themselves very much alive and trapped in a pit of human waste that was deeper than they were tall.

Most medieval nobles didn’t know how to swim—it wasn’t exactly a skill that came up much in their daily lives of managing estates and attending court. Even if they had been strong swimmers, the thick, viscous nature of the waste made movement nearly impossible. The fumes alone were toxic enough to cause suffocation.

Contemporary sources record that approximately 60 nobles died in the disaster, though some estimates put the number closer to 100. Among the confirmed dead were some of the most powerful men in the region: Count Friedrich I of Abenberg, Count Heinrich I of Schwarzburg, Count Gozmar III of Ziegenhain, Burgrave Friedrich I of Kirchberg, Count Burchard of Wartburg, and Behringer von Wellingen.

The Chronicle of St. Peter’s Church in Erfurt, written by someone who was probably there, lists these men by name but notes that there were “other lesser names” who weren’t deemed important enough to record. Even in death, medieval society maintained its strict hierarchy.

The Lucky Survivors

Henry VI’s life was saved by his choice of seating. The stone window alcove where he’d positioned himself didn’t collapse with the rest of the floor. When everything gave way around him, he and Archbishop Conrad grabbed onto the iron railings of the window and held on until rescuers could arrive with ladders to get them down.

Louis III, ironically, actually fell into the cesspit but somehow managed to survive. Historical records don’t specify exactly how he escaped, but he was among those pulled out alive, presumably covered in filth but breathing. The fact that the three men at the center of the original dispute all survived while dozens of innocent bystanders died adds a layer of cosmic irony to the tragedy.

The Aftermath

Henry VI wasted no time getting out of Erfurt. The young king immediately departed to resume his military campaign, leaving the original dispute between Louis and Conrad completely unresolved. Whether the two men eventually worked out their differences is lost to history—they probably had bigger concerns after nearly dying in a pit of excrement.

The disaster had significant political ramifications. The deaths of so many nobles at once created power vacuums across the region. Heinrich I of Schwarzburg’s estate passed to his brother Günther II. Gozmar III’s holdings went to his daughter Liutgard, who would later marry Louis III’s brother Friedrich. Other estates changed hands as inheritances kicked in, reshuffling the political landscape of the Holy Roman Empire.

Medieval Infrastructure Reality

The Erfurt latrine disaster highlights just how precarious life was in medieval times, even for the wealthy and powerful. Medieval sanitation systems were basic at best—essentially holes in the ground with waste collecting in pits below. Buildings were constructed with materials that degraded over time, and safety inspections weren’t exactly a priority.

The latrines in grand buildings like those at Petersberg Citadel were considered advanced for their time. They often protruded from exterior walls so waste could fall into moats or onto the ground below, eliminating the need for manual cleaning. But this also meant the cesspits were rarely if ever emptied, creating exactly the kind of deep, toxic environment that proved so deadly in Erfurt.

The Story’s Strange Legacy

The Erfurt latrine disaster eventually became part of local folklore, with the tale being retold and embellished over the centuries. By the time Ludwig Bechstein included a version in his Deutsches Sagenbuch in 1853, the story had acquired fictional elements and changed details.

In Bechstein’s retelling, Heinrich of Schwarzburg had allegedly been in the habit of saying “Tue ich das, so müsse ich im Abtritt ersaufen“—”If I did that, I’d have to drown in the privy.” The folk version had him ironically fulfilling his own prediction, though this detail doesn’t appear in contemporary historical accounts.

The folklore version also relocated the event to the Benedictine Monastery of Saints Peter and Paul and called it a Reichstag (Imperial Diet) rather than a Hoftag, among other changes. As with many historical events that capture the public imagination, the retelling became more dramatic and less accurate over time.

The disaster remains largely unknown today, overshadowed by more conventional medieval catastrophes like plagues and wars. But for those who do know the story, it serves as a bizarre reminder that sometimes history’s most memorable moments come from the most unexpected—and disgusting—circumstances.

Had Henry VI died along with the nobles that day, European history might have unfolded very differently. Instead, he went on to become Holy Roman Emperor, participate in the Third Crusade, capture Richard the Lionheart, and control vast territories across Europe. All because he happened to choose the right seat in a medieval meeting room—and managed to avoid drowning in human waste.

SOURCES: All That’s Interesting, Historic Mysteries, Lazy History, Amusing Planet, History.co.uk, The Internet Says It’s True, History (Vocal Media), History Expose’, History Skills, Wikipedia

NOTE: Some of this content may have been created with assistance from AI tools, but it has been reviewed, edited, narrated, produced, and approved by Darren Marlar, creator and host of Weird Darkness — who, despite popular conspiracy theories, is NOT an AI voice.