Count Bohemond

by Alfred Duggan

  “That’s no evidence either way. There’s very likely an army of relief, but no one would choose an envoy who couldn’t lie convincingly. What matters is that our terms are refused. You all heard that, gentlemen? I have kept the rules of war as though we were fighting a civilized foe, and now by the same rules of war they are at our mercy. Some mercy they shall have, though not very much. Tell the envoy that within an hour I shall set fire to the four corners of Harenc. Whichever way the wind is blowing they will be roasted alive. That’s their own fault, for putting their castle in the middle of a town and letting someone build wooden sheds right up to the walls. In Apulia we have more sense. If they don’t want to be roasted they may come out unarmed. Their women and children will not be killed, though I suppose someone will enslave them as soon as we go away. All I promise the warriors is that when they are killed it will be swiftly, without torture. They have just an hour to come out, mind. Then the town burns.”

  Less than a score of warriors came out of the castle; though there were hundreds of women and children, the families of those infidels who had been killed in the ambush. At once Bohemond set off for Antioch with his prisoners and cattle. He did not care to watch the Christians of Harenc tie up their new slaves before driving them over the mountains. Every great man among the Greeks and Armenians kept a numerous household of slaves, so slavery could not be unchristian; but it was a peculiar institution for which there was no room among the more honourable customs of the West.

  On the day after Bohemond arrived back in camp they told him that the Patriarch was once more hanging on the wall in his cage. So Bohemond brought his prisoners down to the Bridge Gate, where the besieging lines were closest to the town, and there had their heads struck off one by one, to vex the garrison. The best thing to do with an infidel Turk was to kill him, and such a swift death was merciful.

  That same evening he had great fires made in his camp; visiting Greeks and Armenians were told that these were to roast the bodies of the slain. Everyone knew that the pilgrims, though not yet starving, were very short of meat. When the Turks of Antioch heard of it they would wonder. As a general rule Christians were not cannibals, but the giant Bohemond might do anything. . . .

  About the same time came news that a fleet from Genoa had occupied the port of St. Simeon at the mouth of the Orontes. This was a much safer communication with Italy than a fleet of wandering pirates from beyond the Straits of Gibraltar. The road to St. Simeon was still exposed to infidels’ raids, but it was used increasingly.

  The fast of Advent was well observed in the pilgrim camp, where the price of food was soaring. A small ration of grain was given out daily to each warrior, enough to keep him from dying of hunger; but if he wished to eat better than his horse he must buy everything else from his own purse. Peasants brought in a few vegetables for sale, and there were dead baggage animals. A very strict law forbade the killing of a warhorse for food, and any normal knight would rather starve to death than fight on foot; but warhorses were sometimes stolen from their rightful owners to be killed and eaten.

  The council of leaders hanged a few Greek and Armenian horsethieves. No pilgrim was caught stealing a horse; it was not the kind of offence for which any hungry Frank would denounce a comrade. The leaders themselves were not yet very hungry, but the prospect of starvation before the next harvest affected them in various ways.

  Because the ration of grain was given out only to able-bodied warriors family life collapsed. The many women who had accompanied the pilgrimage would do anything to get food for their children. This appalled the papal legate, who pointed out that if they offended God by promiscuous adultery they could never hope to liberate Antioch. He organized processions of intercession, and proclaimed fasts even more rigorous than necessity compelled. Bohemond, who had seen severe famines in Italy, was less worried than some other leaders. He reminded his knights that according to the old story the Normans besieging Bari had eaten their shoes and their saddles, but not their horses. A long siege was always a hungry business.

  The Count of Blois, in charge of the central store, was nearly mad with worry. To everyone he met he suggested that it was time to wind up the pilgrimage, take passage on the ships at St. Simeon, and go home. But he did not make the suggestion formally in the council of leaders, perhaps because it was obvious that only great men would be able to pay the shipmasters. He was after all a knight; he could not stand up among his equals and propose that they should leave the poorer pilgrims to be massacred by the infidel while they saved their own skins.

  Taticius was also frightened; though his was a different fear. He called on his old friend Bohemond to ask for a guard of Apulian knights. “I’m ashamed of myself,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “A general of the Empire should be able to look after himself in any throng of barbarians. I suppose you know that in the city they call you barbarians? Christian barbarians, of course; but they are known to be more dangerous than the most barbarous heathen. I’m not afraid that I shall die of hunger. I’ve got a bit of money put by where even you, my friend, can’t find it; and my imperial commission still carries weight among the Armenians. But a good many pilgrims blame the Emperor for their misfortunes. They can’t reach the Emperor, so they take it out on me, his representative. All my horses have been stolen except the one Arab mare I keep by my bed. Turkish ponies are stouter, but only Arabs are properly house-trained. Whenever I leave my tent someone waves a knife under my golden nose. My unfortunate guides are too frightened ever to go out. I can’t use them for a bodyguard. But your men obey you, within reasonable limits. If you would detail two or three of them to guard me while I sleep I should get more rest.”

  “There are knights who will obey me, though not perhaps a great many. They blame the Emperor, you know, and in my opinion justly. One difficulty is that being a bodyguard isn’t work worthy of a knight, unless he guards his own lord. I shall have to proclaim that you are my guest, under my protection. To guard the guest of his lord won’t hurt anyone’s dignity.”

  “I’m afraid it would hurt mine. The Emperor would be furious when he heard of it. I can’t openly seek the protection of an individual Frankish lord. That’s why I came to you in private. I was hoping to hire some knights and pay them a regular wage.”

  “That’s out of the question, though I’m sorry to say it. Any Frank who chose to enlist with the Emperor just now would be kicked to death by his fellows. I can’t help you. Don’t take offence at this, but I feel I ought to say it: Why don’t you go back home? The Emperor sent you to show us the way, and to explain Turkish tactics. You have done both. But we shan’t be moving for some time, and anyway you don’t kpow the country ahead of us. It seems to me that you have accomplished your mission.”

  “I still have one duty to perform. It’s my job to install an imperial governor of Antioch. A governor satisfactory to the Franks, of course, but still an imperial governor. This is the limit of the Empire, and I shan’t come with you any farther. But while the siege continues I must stay. I’m sorry you can’t let me have a guard, but I quite understand. I shall hire some Armenian cutthroats, and move my tent to the edge of the camp so that only one side need be watched. Don’t worry. I’ll manage. I’ve seen worse in my day.”

  When old Golden Nose had gone Bohemond thought hard. So the Emperor still hoped to grab Antioch, though he had not lifted a finger to liberate it. But he had promised it to Bohemond. How could Taticius think of offering it to anyone else? The trouble was that most of the leaders liked Taticius, a gallant warrior who had always done his best to help them. If he were still here when the place fell he might be an awkward nuisance. There ought to be some way of removing the old boy, of course without hurting him.

  During the rest of Advent, Apulian grooms and cross-bows shouted threats at Taticius whenever he left his tent. If Bohemond passed by he would rebuke them sternly, but as soon as his back was turned they began again.

  The pilgrims celebrated the liturgy of Christmas 1097 with
great ceremony. The legate sang all three Masses in full pontificals at the magnificent portable altar of the Count of Provence, assisted by all the other pilgrim-Bishops. It was the most solemn and splendid religious function that most lay pilgrims had ever seen.

  The feasting afterwards was on a lesser scale. Though great lords distributed gold and silver among their followers no one had very much to eat. But the Count of Blois saw to it that everyone had a portion of meat, though it might be only camel or mule. If only it had been possible to foresee what they would have to eat at Epiphany it would have been a fairly cheerful occasion.

  One thing was still in their favour, it was agreed at the council of leaders which met on St. Stephen’s Day. The garrison of Antioch was cowed. Since the siege began there had been no sortie, and the enemy never harmed them except by pouncing on lonely stragglers. But something would have to be done to gather fresh supplies.

  The suggestion came from Count Robert of Flanders. He was a lord of great power, leader of a strong and disciplined force; but such a disinterested, dedicated pilgrim, quietly behaved and lacking in ambition, that he seldom spoke in council. It seemed strange that he should take the initiative, though as usual what he proposed would not benefit himself.

  “I expect that by now you all know something about the curious course of the Orontes?” he began. “It rises far to the south of us, turns sharp west just above the Iron Bridge, and continues southwest to the sea. If we follow it upstream we shall reach the heart of the infidel lands, the only direction in which our foragers have not yet explored. The Turks are so quiet in Antioch that I think we may safely divide our forces. I shall lead all my men up the river, as far as we can go in unravaged country. I shall return when I have collected a good herd of cattle and loaded my waggons with grain. But for such a deep raid I don’t think my Flemings will be enough. Will any other lord join me with his mesnie? And do you all agree that it is safe to divide the army of the pilgrimage?”

  It was most flattering that the other leaders, except Raymond, looked spontaneously to Bohemond for his opinion. They were all expert warriors, but he was the expert among experts. It was a challenge he could not refuse.

  “I shall be honoured to ride under the leadership of Count Robert of Flanders,” he said quickly. “Whether the garrison of Antioch will stay quiet I am not so sure. From the castle they will see us go. It’s a chance no warrior can ignore. They may very well try a sortie. But you should be able to hold the camp. Even if they don’t see us the visitors who sell us food will tell the Turks. So the sooner we start the better. Tomorrow, at sunrise?”

  There was a general murmur of agreement, and not a whisper of dissent. The great Bohemond of Apulia recommended an important tactical move, and not even the jealous Raymond dared to speak against it. That was most satisfying.

  On the last day of December the foragers were deep in unknown country. At the great bend of the Orontes they had turned south, but the broad valley had proved disappointing; it was a natural road for warring armies and quarrelsome Turkish factions had harried it bare. The pilgrims ventured farther east, to the open country bordering the desert. They had passed the night in the little town of Albara, a town inhabited only by infidels in which there was not a single Christian church. The natives fled at their approach, leaving enough stored grain to make a good supper, but not enough to carry back to the hungry camp before Antioch. The foragers were completely lost, except that sunrise had shown them the east. Now Count Robert was debating with Bohemond in which direction they should continue their march.

  “Damascus and Jerusalem must lie south,” said Robert. “Plenty of infidels round there. The mountains to the west must also be full of them. We came here to plunder, not to fight. I suggest we go on to the east, where the country seems empty.”

  “It’s very open,” Bohemond objected. “I don’t care to fight Turks in open country, where they can keep out of reach while they shoot arrows. I would feel safer among the mountains. If you push those Turks up against some obstacle you can charge them. They may pop out suddenly from an ambush, but in the long run mountains are safer.”

  “Well, you know best,” said Robert doubtfully. “I suppose we must turn west and fight before we forage. We came out in strength because we didn’t want to fight. The idea was that such a strong force could forage without opposition. But perhaps we have come too far to get back without a fight. My men will go ahead, if you agree. Then you in the rear can see what happens, and do as you think best if something unpleasant turns up.”

  Count Robert was a charming colleague, but Bohemond found it difficult to cope with such open diffidence. He was used to giving orders, or perhaps to obeying them; it was hard to strike the right note with a great lord who was so willing to be persuaded and yet might not be commanded. Obviously, if the Flemings agreed to march west Count Robert must be allowed to lay down the order of march. The Flemings would have first pick of any plunder found, but in these small things Bohemond must fall in with the wishes of Count Robert.

  The Flemings were nearly as well trained and obedient as Apulians. Within an hour they were marching west, though they had been expecting to continue east. They had gone about two miles, and Bohemond was getting ready to follow them, when the Turks came in sight.

  The ground was wet, so no dust-cloud hid the horsemen. Bohemond could see all that went on. He knew that this was a crucial test. It would be easy to rescue the Flemings but he was expected to do more. He was the expert who annihilated Turkish armies. If Count Robert acknowledged his superior skill he would support him against Raymond in the council of leaders.

  As he watched he muttered aloud, to help clear his own thoughts. “Those Turks haven’t come out to defend their own herds. They are too many, and they attack too eagerly. They are shooting now, at very close range, but they are getting ready to charge with the sabre. That’s not how men fight who are defending their homes against great odds. Ah, I see it. An infidel army coming up from the south to relieve Antioch. They heard of plunderers in these parts and turned aside to wipe us out. Tut tut, all those light horse and they don’t bother to scout before they charge. They think the Flemings are all they have to deal with. They still haven’t spotted my Apulians, among these houses.”

  His knights were getting into line, shield on neck and lance in hand. They waited for him to lead the charge, but they would not wait much longer. He must time it right. If he charged too soon the Turks would get away; if he delayed too long the Flemings would be massacred before their rescuers could arrive. He rode down the line to steady his knights, his eyes still fixed on the fight. Two miles of muddy plain to cross, say ten minutes at the outside. The Turkish drums were beating a sustained roll like thunder; the mass of galloping horses contracted towards its centre. With his banner-bearer half a length behind him Bohemond set off towards the battle.

  The loose line of Apulian knights enclosed the scrimmage on three sides. As they arrived the Turks had charged in with the sabre, against a compact mass of Flemings. Flemish cross-bows, grooms and baggage mules were all mixed up with their knights in a dense knot which no Turkish pony could penetrate. The outnumbered Flemings were fighting stubbornly for their lives. A good many Turks were down, for their flimsy mail and light weapons put them at a disadvantage in close combat; but in a few minutes the Christians might break. No one on either side had eyes for anything beyond the reach of his arm.

  Bohemond’s lance took his first Turk in the small of the back, which seemed an unknightly way to join a battle. Then he had drawn his sword to struggle against wiry desperate men who slid to the ground and tried to dodge under his horse’s belly as the best chance of escape. Since the throng was too dense for his horse to move he dropped the reins and fought with both hands, sweeping his heavy shield to the left as he waved his great sword on the right. A pony gripped his thigh, but could not get its teeth through the mail; his horse bit the pony in the neck until it let go; the rim of a little Turkish shield, banged into h
is kneecap, brought acute pain but did not break the skin.

  Suddenly it was over. Count Robert, bloody and sweaty, waved in welcome; and there were no more Turks. “A nice little battle,” said Robert. “You came in just at the right moment. Some of my men are dead, but that was what they risked when they left Flanders. We have killed many more Turks. Look, that’s all that’s left of them, the little band riding off westwards.”

  “Others got away on foot. Your cross-bows and grooms can hunt them down. Mine are still two miles away in Albara. Are any of your knights fit to gallop? These people must have been coming to the relief of Antioch, which means that they have a convoy with them. If we follow the fugitives we may find it.”

  A convoy had been there, but they never caught it. Turks used pack-animals instead of waggons, and travelled fast. The pilgrims were not quite empty-handed; they picked up some lame cattle and foundered pack-ponies, as well as the personal wealth of the Turks they had killed. It was not what they had hoped to find, but it was better than nothing. Robert and Bohemond agreed that after such a stiff fight, with so many armed Turks to the southward, the foragers ought to return to the main army.

  Before they reached the Iron Bridge they turned west, to sweep the southern approaches to Antioch. They might catch another infidel convoy, and anyway their journey must inconvenience the garrison. They were surprised to meet pilgrims and camp-followers straggling over the mountains to the south-west. These told vague stories of a terrible attack on the camp; though the stragglers were not fugitives from defeat, but hungry men and women looking for something to eat. When they saw victorious knights they were glad to come back under their protection. Bohemond abused them for cowardice. Ever since they left Nicaea he had feared that the pilgrimage might disperse into little groups of hungry foragers. Most of the lesser pilgrims were not following the lords who ruled them at home, and with no leader except that slow and clumsy council of war it was hard to keep an army together.