“Well, no. That would be an odd way to behave, wouldn’t it? My knights follow me and Raymond’s knights follow him. But beforehand he explained his plans in full council. It wasn’t a private foray, like Baldwin’s raid into Cilicia or your Tancred’s. I am sure if you had been there you would have approved, but you happened to be away.”
“Yes, I happened to be away, so Raymond happened to try to snatch Antioch. Curious how these things fall out, isn’t it? Luckily I can count on one thing: if the Turks hold a place Raymond can’t take it unless I help him. Thank you for telling me. And Baldwin has gone off eastward? The pilgrimage is diminishing. But you and I and the other Normans can take Antioch without help from any Frenchman. I shall talk it over with Taticius. Do you think you can get your men on the march tomorrow morning?”
Taticius produced a map of Antioch. It looked huge, but he explained that houses did not fill all the space within the walls. He had never been there when it was in Christian hands, but before he left the city he had talked with an elderly engineer who had once helped to repair the towers.
“Here’s the Orontes,” he explained, pointing at the map. “Not a very big river; but it flows all the year round, which is more than some rivers do in these parts. The main traffic of the town is by barge to the river mouth, so most of the houses are here, on the south bank. Here’s a whacking great bridge, leading to a little castle on the north bank. There’s no bridge lower down. About a day’s march upstream there’s a bridge in open country, with no town beside it. It’s called the Iron Bridge, though it isn’t made of iron. No one can explain these local names. It has some kind of permanent fortification, though I don’t know how strong. So much for the Orontes: two bridges, no easy fords. An awkward obstacle to an army coming from the north.”
“But with Christian ships at Tarsus we can build a bridge of boats,” Bohemond interjected. “The Orontes won’t stop us.”
“No indeed. But then you come to the walls of Antioch. They were built by the mighty Emperor Justinian. Sixty feet high, dotted with towers, no way down into the town except stairs inside the towers. A very long circuit, because Mount Silpius dominates the whole place. On the summit is the castle, to the north a gentle slope, precipices on the other three sides. The walls climb up to enclose the whole north side of the mountain. They must be about eight miles long altogether, too much for any garrison to hold in force. But the defenders can see everything the besiegers are doing, and anyway you can’t get near the south wall because of the precipices. You won’t get in by surprise.”
“Will your men help us to build siege-engines?”
“That won’t help you. The river is a moat to the northern wall, and Mount Silpius guards the other sides. You can’t get near enough to batter effectively.”
“Then we must starve them out.”
“It’s a very big place, with grazing for cattle on the mountain. The Turks have been gathering provisions. You might starve first.”
“In fact you don’t think we can take it. But the Turks took it from the Emperor.”
“The Turks didn’t take it from the Emperor. After Manzikert the local commander declared himself independent. After he was dead his son took fright and sold it to the Turks. Antioch has never been taken by force.”
“No Franks have tried to take it, so far. My father took Bari and I have taken Durazzo, both strong fortresses built by Greeks. If the Turks man the wall we can close with them and use our swords. But thank you for your advice.”
“I try to help you. Of course I hope you will liberate Antioch.” Taticius spoke with a pleading smile. “There’s one other thing, my dear Count. Could you ask your followers not to be so rough with my men? They are scouts, you know—not our best warriors. They complain that whenever they leave their tents pilgrims threaten to cut their throats. I know that some of your common foot are angry with the Emperor, but they ought not to take it out of men who have guided them across Anatolia.”
“I’ll do my best. But if men would love one another at my command there would be no wars. I hope no one has threatened you personally?”
“No. I am not often threatened by common foot.” With a smile Taticius touched the hilt of his sabre. “I have got into the habit of guarding this precious nose of mine.” He did not look like a man whom it would be profitable to threaten.
With mixed feelings Bohemond prepared for the next advance.
Chapter X - Before Antioch
On 20th October 1097 the pilgrims descended into the plain of Antioch, the verge of the Holy Land they were vowed to liberate. The plain was fruitful, and a good harvest was stored in the numerous villages. From the look of the fields and vineyards they could see this was a new land; they had traversed Anatolia from end to end and at last come to Syria.
A few Turkish scouts hovered in the distance, but rejoicing Christian peasants lined the road. Interpreters reported that the whole country had risen; the Turks were shut up in a few strong towns. The army of the pilgrimage straggled over several miles of road, as eager knights pressed forward and less enthusiastic footmen loitered with friendly village girls.
Bohemond rode in the van, with Taticius and the papal legate. It was a good country for an ambush, cut with steep ravines and hidden valleys; but the friendly peasants could be relied on to give warning. So long as every man was armed there was no need for further precaution.
“There’s the Orontes,” said Taticius, grinning. “That’s the Iron Bridge straight ahead, with those two towers guarding it.”
Bishop Adhemar understood no Greek, but he followed the pointing finger. “A great cloud of dust. It may be the Turkish army. Come on, Count Bohemond. We can see more from the top of this mound.”
“No army,” he said a moment later. “Something even better. A herd of sheep and cattle on the far side of the river. Supplies for Antioch, I suppose. We must have them. In this land of bread you never taste decent beef. Why are you waiting? There may be Turks in the towers, but the bridge was built so that men might cross the river.”
His horse got off to a good start. As he galloped he pulled his shield in front of him and couched his lance.
Bohemond hesitated. This was absurdly rash, even if the pilgrims were in need of fresh beef. There were Turks in the towers, and an unknown number of Turks driving the cattle; if the men holding the towers knew their job they would have dug some obstacle to halt charging knights within convenient range of their arrows. But Bishop Adhemar took in a situation very quickly. At Dorylaeum he had attacked the infidels in the rear when even such a good knight as Godfrey thought only of charging to the rescue of his fellow-pilgrims. By now the Bishop was several lengths ahead; it would be wrong for a Hauteville to ride second in a charge. He chanced a short cut down a steeper slope until he was beside the legate.
He was aware of hoofs behind him. Another horseman drew level, and then correctly dropped back. It was the squire who carried his banner on the march. A squire, without knightly mail, should not be so far up in front; and in addition the whole mesnie of Apulia would be galloping behind their lord with banner displayed. Without warning the legate had started a battle.
Here was the bridge, a fine solid structure with ample room for three horses abreast. There was a tower full of Turks at each end, but they had only just begun to bar the road with posts and planking. Even now the workmen were scuttling to shelter below the river bank. The Bishop, setting his horse squarely at a post fixed in the earth, bowled it over. Two arrows thudding against Bohemond’s back brought a shudder of fear. But his mail stopped them. Once more he drew level with Adhemar. A moment later they were the first Christian knights across the Orontes since the Emperor Heraclius had been driven from the Holy Land more than four hundred years ago.
On the southern bank of the river the fight became just another galloping skirmish, like any summer cattle raid in Europe. As more pilgrims pounded over the bridge the mounted Turks fled. No one even shot at the later arrivals. The infidels in the towers s
lipped out on foot and dodged upstream sheltered by the river bank; everyone was too eager to get to the front to harm them. Hardly any Turks were killed, though the booty was most rewarding.
Obviously they had snapped up a belated convoy on its way to Antioch. Besides sheep and cattle there were mules and donkeys laden with sacks of grain, even a herd of spare horses as remounts for the garrison.
No time was wasted in dividing the spoil, since the Count of Blois would look after it. Bishop Adhemar called to Bohemond.
“There’s another six hours of daylight. Why don’t you bustle along to Antioch and make them close the gates? You may catch another convoy, and at least you will bother them. There’s no danger. The infidels are not in the mood for battle. The rest of the army will arrive tomorrow, I promise you. I’m afraid we may have missed a chance by stopping to take over these bullocks. If we had ridden hard after the Turks we might have got inside Antioch with them. I reproach myself for having squandered time. I have been told that in warfare, time may be more precious than blood.”
“Had you seen before you charged that it was safe to cross the bridge?” asked Bohemond.
“As safe as such things can ever be,” answered the Bishop. “It might have been an ambush, but I didn’t think Turks would use such a rich convoy as mere bait. I knew that the Turks I could see would be no danger to us. I’m sorry if I was slow.”
“You couldn’t have been quicker. I must apologize for my unworthy suspicions. I supposed you were charging recklessly. You also saw the way to the Turkish rear at Dorylaeum. Now if only the Pope had appointed you commander of the whole pilgrimage I would follow you gladly.”
“But he didn’t. He expected the Emperor to take command, with my Count Raymond as his deputy. I have no skill in military affairs. If you thought I was charging recklessly you were brave to follow so close. But we mustn’t waste time. Please move on to Antioch.”
To be in the very van of the army of liberation was exhilarating. Taticius and his guides had vanished, but it was impossible to mistake the broad paved road. Soon they could see Mount Silpius. Christian peasants ran out of their cottages to cheer; some had murdered Turkish stragglers, and displayed their heads proudly.
The road led straight to the great east gate of Antioch, between the mountain and the river. When Bohemond got a close look at the walls he pulled up in dismay. Sixty feet of sheer masonry, studded with towers twenty feet higher. The gate was closed, and there were sentinels on all the towers. No hope of rushing in before the Christian army was expected. All the same, the siege had begun twelve hours before the infidels looked for it; the gallop from the Iron Bridge had not been entirely a wasted effort.
The legate had promised that the main army would arrive next day, and Bishop Adhemar could be relied on. But until the Apulians were reinforced they would be in some danger. They had no cross-bows, no foot of any kind; and they must be greatly outnumbered by the infidel garrison. At least there were some light horse who had ridden behind the knights; these lesser men could look after the warhorses. Bohemond laid out a bivouac, guarded on the north by the river. For most of the night he sat on the bare ground, though when he felt very sleepy he stood up and strolled about. He dared not sleep, for he had no subordinate with him who could be trusted to relieve the sentries punctually. But there was plenty of bread for supper, given freely by Christian peasants.
It was a very long night, and a gloomy one. After his hurried look at the walls Bohemond could not imagine how to capture Antioch. While that mighty curtain stood undamaged they could not storm it; the rising ground made it impossible to bring siege engines close enough to batter it. Still, if Taticius was right the walls made a very long circuit. They might find a weak spot somewhere. Perhaps after the whole army had come up some other leader might have a bright idea.
By sunrise there was still no threat of an infidel sortie, and Bohemond slept until noon. Tancred woke him, with news that the army would be in position by nightfall. He was no longer in command of an advanced detachment. Freedom from responsibility made him feel less tired.
Tancred shared with him a lump of salt pork; for supper the army would feast on as much fresh beef as the greediest pilgrim could hold. This was war as it should be. Tancred suggested that to celebrate their arrival they should ride round the town.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you yesterday,” he explained. “I’m sure you know that when I see your banner displayed I follow it; I don’t claim to lead a mesnie of my own. I have just come back from a look at the Syrian Gates into Cilicia, and a talk with Guynemer the pirate.”
“And how did you leave your fief? Are your vassals obedient?”
“There’s no fief for me in Cilicia. The quarrel with Baldwin has botched everything, and anyway I suspect the Armenians are too strong to submit to Frankish rule. Some of my men hold Mamistra, but they will come on when they have gathered all the plunder. The Syrian Gates are such a dangerous obstacle that it would be difficult to rule Cilicia from Syria. But Guynemer gave me some encouraging news.”
“Let the Armenians keep their land. They dislike the Greeks as much as we do. They will give us ample warning of a stab in the back. That may come at any moment, you know, and it worries me more than any move from the infidels. What did the pirates tell you, and are you now at peace with all your fellow-pilgrims?”
“You mean Baldwin? I haven’t met him, since he has gone off to the east. But when we meet I shall keep the peace. I have thought it over, and that formal reconciliation must bind me. Guynemer is a ruffian, of course; a man of low birth with appalling manners. But he fights well, so I’m told, and for the present he is an earnest pilgrim. His sailors are taking over all the harbours between Tarsus and the mouth of the Orontes, and they have picked up a rumour that a Genoese fleet is on the way. Before winter we shall have our safe communication with Italy, one that Alexius cannot interrupt.”
“That’s very good news. Confound Alexius. He’s brave and he never gives up. Without him to lead them the Greeks would be no bother to anyone. Perhaps he will be poisoned: that often happens to Greek Emperors. I am genuinely afraid of Alexius, especially when I don’t know what he is doing. I don’t think I have ever been afraid of anyone else in the world.”
“Cheer up, uncle. Alexius in the city is a very terrible foe, but when he comes within reach of a Frankish lance he runs away. You have proved it in the past. Now let’s look at these walls.”
They rode round the south of the town. At first the wall was close on their right, but soon the steep cliffs of Mount Silpius drove them farther away. Narrow tracks led up these cliffs to the castle on the summit, but these were dangerously exposed to Turkish arrows. No main road entered the town from the south, again because of the mountain. After a long scrambling ride they came to the south-west gate and a good road to the coast, on the left bank of the Orontes. The south-west gate still stood open, but no Turks came out to attack the two tallest knights in the whole army of the pilgrimage.
They looked north-east, where the wall ran nearly straight by the left bank of the river. “We can’t go any farther,” said Bohemond. “The infidels would catch us between wall and river bank. The east gate and my bivouac must be about four miles in that direction. We have seen the whole circuit of Antioch, and there is no easy way in.”
“In fact the pilgrimage is stuck, unless we can frighten the Turks into going away. It seems to me about time to call on God for a miracle.”
“Leave that to the clergy. It’s none of our business. Something may turn up. A great deal of war is waiting for something to turn up. Now we must go back the way we came.”
When they got back at sunset the whole army had arrived and the tents were being pitched. The Apulians kept their proud position outside the main gate of Antioch; peasants told them that it was named after St. Paul. They were on the left of the line, but also the closest to the enemy.
On their immediate right Count Raymond made camp opposite a small entry named the
Dog’s Gate. Beyond him Duke Godfrey occupied a bend in the river, from which he could block the imposing Duke’s Gate. There was no room in the front line for the rest of the pilgrims, who were camped along the road to the Iron Bridge. This disposition was nowhere near an investment of Antioch. The pilgrims faced little more than a mile of the wall; the great Bridge Gate, leading over the river to the main road to the port at its mouth, and St. George’s Gate, leading south-west to the Syrian coast, were both open to infidel traffic.
The next day was spent settling in. The Turks made no move, except occasionally to shoot an arrow at some pilgrim who wandered too close to the wall. Evidently they trusted entirely to the defences built long ago by the mighty Justinian; it seemed only too likely that their trust was well placed.
But at the council meeting, next morning, the lesser Counts who carried no responsibility for managing the campaign were feeling very cheerful. The autumn weather was delightful, the camps were not crowded, and food was abundant. For the first time since they had embarked on this pilgrimage they were living as pleasantly as if they had been making war on the borders of their own fiefs.
The Count of Blois made them feel less cheerful.
“Gentlemen, please persuade your men to live more frugally. I was shocked at the amount taken yesterday from our central store. I know we have great mounds of wheat and barley, and a large herd of cattle. But there are no more cattle in the country, no more grain until next year’s harvest. The peasants were so delighted to see a Christian army again in these parts that they gave us all they had; or perhaps we bought some of it and took some of it by force. Anyway we have it all. I don’t know how long this siege will last—nobody knows. But it may very well drag on until Christmas, and by then we shall all be hungry.”
Count Bohemond Page 18
