Count Bohemond

by Alfred Duggan

  Time was no longer on the Christian side. Most pilgrims had made their vows in 1095, and now it was the beginning of 1098; after such a long campaign enthusiasm must slacken. All things considered, they had done amazingly well; Alexius had expected that they would be slaughtered in Anatolia. But they could not take Antioch unless they bought a way in, and so far no traitor had appeared. A serious defeat, even a continuation of the hungry winter, might scatter the army. He would be lenient with people who left their posts to look for food without intending to withdraw from the Holy War; but he must persuade the council of leaders to make an example of the first man who tried to go home to Europe without leave.

  Robert and Bohemond were cheered as they rode into camp; for it was still considered a notable exploit to ride round the walls of Antioch. But everyone was plainly disappointed at the scanty plunder they brought with them. Bohemond was eager to hear about the great battle which had been fought in his absence. While he washed in a tub of cold water (fuel was too scarce for a hot bath) Tancred told him the news.

  “The pilgrims are really in a bad way. Armenians sell us food, but at such a price that only the rich can buy. The Count of Blois has stopped the issue of free corn, because he has none left. In St. Simeon there is food, though not enough for the army. Genoese sailors send what help they can. So, curiously enough, do the Greeks of Cyprus. The Patriarch of Jerusalem fled there. Of course he counts on the pilgrims to get him back into the Holy Sepulchre. The Patriarch is Greek, but he knows the Emperor won’t help him. With odds and ends from here and there we can keep going; at least we Apulians can keep going. The veterans insist on telling me about grandfather Robert and his siege of Bari until I could scream with tedium. Hunger is a hardship, but it never yet stopped an army that meant business.”

  “I wish I could offer you supper, but you know how it is. Will you take a cup of wine? I have a little.”

  “No, thanks. You are very kind, but it doesn’t sit well on an empty stomach. I manage all right. For dinner I had a bit of camel, and tomorrow there will be a cabbage and some oats. I am half a Hauteville, which means that when there’s fighting to be done at least half of me can go without food. No, what’s far more worrying than this little bother about supplies is that the Turks of Antioch have got back their courage.”

  “Ah yes, the battle. Were you in it? Did you see it all?”

  “Everyone was in it. They attacked right along the line. I didn’t see it all, because most of it happened in the middle of the night. That was what made it such a muddle. Let’s see, when was it? Oh yes, the second night after you left us. This is how it went.”

  Tancred sat on the ground. Most of the Bohemond’s chairs had been burned for firewood, and a hungry man found it tiring to stand.

  “Since we arrived the Turks had sat quiet behind their wall, apart from catching an occasional straggler. Suddenly, about midnight, they beat their drums. Men carrying torches soaked in oil came out in front of the wall. The glare dazzled us so that we could not see their archers on the battlements; but they could see us. I am afraid that after such a lull we were all a bit slack. We had sentries out, of course, but the rest of us had taken off our mail and were sleeping in blankets. Our sentries fell back out of range. I told our cross-bows to shoot at the torchbearers, and they began to explain why this couldn’t be done. You know how obstructive they can be. It was too wet for their bow-strings, or too dry, or perhaps too foggy. No weather is just right for cross-bows, and no knight knows enough about their horrid little machines to contradict them.

  “You can say the Turks drove us from their wall,” he went on, “until the knights were armed and ready. Then of course we drove them back. In our following no one of any importance was killed, though we lost a few sentries. The worst of it was a sleepless night, and a certain amount of thieving during the confusion. I lost a bit of bacon I had been dreaming about for days. I was saving it until I felt really hungry. But what depressed me more than anything was the courage of the Turks. A month ago they were afraid of us, now they are not.

  “Duke Godfrey missed all this. He has fever, so he sleeps in a cottage some way back. His men fought well enough without him. You can rely on them. They are nearly as good as Normans.

  “The real Turkish attack came over their bridge and our bridge of boats. The rest of it was just a demonstration to stop us reinforcing Count Raymond. On the two bridges there was real hand-to-hand fighting. In the beginning the Turks nearly got among our tents. Count Raymond behaved very well, though I don’t enjoy saying it any more than you enjoy hearing it. As soon as he was armed and mounted he charged the Turks. They stood their ground and fought back as they have never done before. Of course the legate rode behind Raymond. I wish he wouldn’t. It gives a wrong impression, for all that Raymond is temporal lord of Le Puy. No Bishop is the vassal of the lord who happens to protect his cathedral city. Anyway, the legate fought like a paladin, and lost some good knights from his mesnie. His bannerbearer was killed on the bridge. That was when the Turks were beginning to give way. It ended with Raymond chasing them over the bridge, and very nearly carrying the Bridge Gate by assault. For a moment there was no one to stop him, so I’m told. But all this happened in pitch dark, except for those flaring Turkish torches. Something galloped out of the dark. It may have been the Devil with horns and tail, it may have been a riderless horse— accounts vary. Anyway, Raymond’s men flinched, and the Turks got their gate shut. So here we are, just as far from Antioch as when you left us, and a good deal more frightened.”

  Tancred rose to go.

  “By the way,” he added, “there was a slight earthquake next night, and strange lights shone in the sky. Earthquakes happen constantly, and I am told by pilgrims from the north that they have similar lights in their country. Neither can affect the Holy War. But those of our men who were already frightened felt all the more frightened. That’s what happens when things begin to go wrong. Now you know all the news. No, I really won’t eat or drink anything.”

  “It’s time for a miracle—or a traitor,” Bohemond called after him as he left the pavilion.

  Chapter XII - The Hungry Winter

  All through January the famine increased. Great lords did what they could for their sworn followers, and for lesser folk who came from their own fiefs; but a great mass of poor pilgrims followed no lord. These had been expected to look after themselves. So far they had managed on the free supplies of the Greek Emperor, by foraging, or by earning wages from those who had money. Now they died of hunger. There was nothing to be done about it.

  Numbers of horses died also, from lack of fodder in the crowded muddy camp; for anyone who was caught killing a horse for food was hanged immediately. In a military sense the loss of horses was a greater weakness than the loss of unwarlike camp-followers. The charge of Frankish knights was the new weapon in which those leaders who did not expect a miracle trusted to conquer the infidel east. Without a horse a knight could defend a wall; but he could not attack and could scarcely march.

  Anyone who had food ate it alone, in secrecy. There was an end of visiting from one great pavilion to another. Bohemond and Tancred, in fact all the Apulian knights, were proud of being able to keep alive on very little; it was a military tradition of their fathers. They guarded their horses, did not steal from other pilgrims, rested as much as they could—and watched for the first sign of collapse among Franks accustomed to an easier life.

  Taticius was in fact the first to weaken. He sought out Bohemond to explain why he must leave. “The Emperor sent me to guide you,” he said. “I can’t do that any more, because I don’t know the country ahead. I was also to report to the Emperor on your progress, and that again is impossible. The Armenians will not allow imperial couriers to ride through their land. My money is finished. My men have deserted, I suspect to join the infidels. I must return to seek fresh instructions. The Emperor is with his army somewhere in Anatolia, so I shan’t have to go all the way back to the city. Will you expla
in all this to your colleagues on the council, so they don’t accuse me of running away?”

  “My dear fellow, no Frank would accuse you of cowardice. We have seen you fight. You are not under the orders of the council of leaders. You need no man’s permission to withdraw. All the same the lesser pilgrims won’t like it. They may try to keep you here by force, as a hostage for the Emperor. You must give out some soothing reason for your journey. Why not say you are going to arrange another convey of supplies? By the way, why doesn’t the Emperor send supplies? God knows we need them.”

  “I can’t say why any more than you can. It’s a long time since a messenger got through from imperial headquarters. I can make guess, of course. One reason is that you are just too far off. By road it’s a very long way from the city to Antioch, with Armenian mountaineers barring the route. It would be easier by sea, but again there are difficulties. Our sailors could reach St. Simeon, but they may be afraid to venture into harbour. It has always been the port of Antioch, within the Empire from time immemorial. They may be waiting for you to install a Greek governor. At present Italians hold it, and they haven’t even asked for a copy of our import regulations. I fear that in the laxity of war they may not be enforcing them. Would you like me to take over the port? I am sure I could get Greek shipping moving at once.”

  “That’s obviously the right thing to do, my lord Taticius. But unfortunately I don’t see how I can do it at present. The Italians, Genoese I believe, are not my men and would not recognize my authority. Of course I can’t use force against them, since we may not fight fellow-pilgrims. But they will help you on your way, if you are seeking supplies from the Emperor.”

  “I suppose they will recognize the authority of the full council of leaders? Shall I come before the next meeting of the council, with my interpreter of course? I can promise your army plentiful seaborne supplies as soon as I am in possession of St. Simeon.”

  “That’s the honest straightforward course, which comes naturally to you since you are an honest straightforward man. If you speak to the council I shall speak in your support, you may be sure. All the same, I advise against it. The Genoese are Italian, and pretty civilized. But also in St. Simeon there are those pirates from the far north, Guynemer’s men, tough savages. They have got it into their heads that they fought their way through the Straits of Gibraltar, and restored the whole coast of Cilicia to Christendom, without help from the Emperor or the Greek army. Pirates, as you must know, are inclined to keep what they have taken. I fear the council of leaders may not be able to help you. And of course there is always the slight risk that they might fetter you as a hostage. That would be a shocking way to treat a loyal ally, and I should vote against it. But it is my duty to warn you of the danger.”

  There was something in the very act of speaking Greek which made it easy to convey a threat under a veil of courtesy. Bohemond and Taticius understood one another. Alexius would feed the pilgrims if they gave him St. Simeon at once and Antioch when it fell into their hands. Bohemond did not consider this a fair bargain.

  After many protestations of undying goodwill Taticius took his leave. As he walked back to his tent on the edge of the camp a burly Armenian guarded his back; even brave old Golden Nose was worried by constant threats of assassination.

  Next to the knights, the most valuable warriors in the pilgrim army were the cross-bows. Their weapons were a novelty in the east, so that Armenian lords were eager to hire them. In general they were poor men, unable to buy food at current prices; their lords tried to look after them, but they were strongly tempted to desert.

  The council of leaders decided that mounted knights should patrol the road northward to the mountains, to check the desertion of such skilled soldiers. A mounted patrol was hard on the starving horses; but Tancred, bored by the siege, volunteered for the task. A very little extra forage was collected as a reward for his public spirit.

  It was tacitly agreed that he should not arrest non-combatants and unskilled foot of negligible military worth. There was a constant trickle of such men to the delusive safety of Armenia. This safety was delusive because the Armenians did not want them. Any food they had to spare was sold at high prices in the Christian camp; deserters who did not starve in the mountains were sped on their way back to Europe. None of them got farther than Anatolia, where wandering Turks killed the weak and captured the ablebodied for the slave-market. That left the pilgrims with fewer mouths to feed, and suited all parties.

  But as darkness fell on the evening after Bohemond had spoken with Taticius, Tancred hurried back into camp, too speedily for the welfare of his hungry horse. He hurried straight to his uncle’s pavilion, though it was supper-time and in that dearth the wrong hour for a social call.

  Bohemond sat before a cup of wine diluted with water, chewing on the strap of an old spur. It was a dodge he had heard his father recommend. It did not seem a useful dodge. The leather exercised his teeth; but his stomach still ached with emptiness, and he knew that if he swallowed the strap it would ache worse than before. What he wanted was something exciting to take his mind off his longing for food.

  That was provided by Tancred’s news: “You remember, uncle, that I have been ordered to hang captured deserters in public, as a deterrent. But this afternoon I caught a couple of fish rather too heavy for my net. I suppose I ought to bring them before the council for judgement, but that will cause scandal. The scoundrels I caught sneaking off to the bread and beef of Armenia are Peter the Hermit, that holy man, and the lord William of Melun. I have them here, safely bound. What shall I do with them? Hang them, or take them before the council, or just let them go quietly?”

  “If you take my advice you won’t bring them before the council. People will take sides, and it may end in an open breach. If they are safely bound chuck them down in the entry of this tent while we talk it over. William of Melun, eh? Isn’t he supposed to be a mighty warrior? And the famous Peter? This needs thinking out. I wish I could offer you some refreshment. God’s teeth, but I will. Not food, of course, but I have a little jug of wine. I was saving it for an emergency, and this is an emergency. We can’t think straight without something inside us. Here’s a cup, and here’s the wine, hanging on the peg behind my mail. Now then. Peter and the lord of Melun, you say? I see your difficulty. If men like that can set a bad example unpunished, then everyone will run away. On the other hand, I don’t think I am great enough to judge them, and certainly you aren’t. H’m.”

  As the wine glowed inside them, they sat, looking judicial.

  “Let’s take Peter first,” said Bohemond. “It’s a tricky case.”

  “Surely William matters more,” Tancred exclaimed. “A good knight, wealthy and well born. It’s the worst thing that has happened since the pilgrimage began. As for Peter, he’s neither a priest nor a monk. I doubt if he would rank as a clerk. Just a stray holy man, very dirty, with no kin behind him. Does anyone care whether he lives or dies?”

  “You don’t and I don’t, of course,” Bohemond answered soothingly, “but we are knights. This Peter once raised a great army. The Turks killed his men, naturally, while he hid in the imperial palace. All the same, once he had an army. He rides a donkey, too. Beware of men who ride donkeys and raise armies. If we hang him we shall spread alarm and despondency among the lower orders. I won’t meddle with him, I won’t even talk to him. I’m scared of Peter, because I am always scared of the unknown. I can cope with rational men, who defend their own property, try to steal the property of others, take a bribe, serve their lords. I can’t cope with an enthusiast.

  “You deal with Peter,” he went on after a pause. “Tell him off. Warn him that you have your eye on him. Say that if you catch him running away again you will skin him alive and then report him missing, believed killed. Explain it so that he understands. Then take him back to his tent and say no more about it.”

  “We can’t hush it up,” Tancred objected. “I was not alone when I caught him. A score of our knights saw i
t. The story will be all over the camp.”

  “Better and better,” his uncle chuckled. “The story is known, but it isn’t official. Peter may have run away, but very few noticed and here he is back again. He will have to behave himself, but no one can openly call him a deserter. No other Count will blame us for keeping it quiet. No alarm, no despondency, no more trouble from Peter. Now what shall we do with William of Melun?”

  “Nothing, tonight,” Tancred answered with a yawn. “My stomach is so empty that a single cup of wine has left me muzzy. Sleep on it, and then do as you wish. I leave his fate in your hands. Thank you for the drink, and good night.”

  “Right. Tonight I shall think about it, and so will William. That will be part of his punishment, perhaps the worst part. Drop Peter by his tent as you go home. I hope your horse is none the worse?”

  Next morning Bohemond woke early. To doze again in his blankets as long as possible would be wise, but the gnawing of his stomach would not let him rest. Instead he worked up a fine glow of moral indignation about the wickedness of William of Melun.

  For a knight to desert his lord in the field was the worst crime he could commit. Wait, had William deserted his lord? He had come in the company of the Count of Vermandois, but Count Hugh was not his natural lord. It was unlikely that he drew wages, though he might have been paid during the ride across Romania. But he had perjured himself. The pilgrims had sworn to liberate Jerusalem unless they died in the attempt. The vow would bind the survivors until they had actually heard Mass within the Holy Sepulchre. Odd, by the way, how the Count of Vermandois had faded from the public eye. He rarely attended the council of leaders; perhaps he was sick. But he had not run away. A fool, but a brave fool. The Duke of Normandy was such another fool, though he talked so much that one could never ignore him. Bohemond’s thoughts were wandering. He was on the edge of another doze.