by Robert Payne
They despised the princes who thought only of possessing principalities and kingdoms, and they despised the knights in their shining armor who rode on caparisoned horses. In their nakedness and poverty they regarded themselves as the true princes and the true knights, the only ones among the Crusaders who were sure of entering heaven. Cutthroats dressed in rags, they saw themselves as Christlike.
Guibert of Nogent is one of the few chroniclers who pays serious attention to the Tafurs. He had evidently seen them and had a deep feeling for them. Even at the time, people wondered whether they served a useful purpose or whether they were not more dangerous to the Christian army than to the Turks. Guibert of Nogent answered that they were absolutely essential to the conduct of the war against the Turks: they carried burdens uncomplainingly, guarded the pack animals, and he noted especially that they were adept at overturning the enemy’s ballistas and siege engines by throwing rocks at them. They were a rabble in arms, lawless, terrible in their insolence and pride, and most terrible of all when they were in the greatest danger.
Because the Tafurs did not fit neatly into the categories of history, and because they were a living force of incalculable power and energy, they entered legend. There came a time during the siege of Antioch when the entire Christian army was living on starvation rations. Everyone suffered, even the knights, and the Tafurs suffered most of all. Desperate measures had to be taken. According to the Chanson d’Antioche the Tafurs resorted to cannibalism, eating dead Turks wherever they could find them:
. . . They flayed the Turks and removed the entrails:
By boiling and roasting they cooked the flesh.
Thus they ate while tasting no bread.
When the poet goes on to record the miracles of valor performed by the Tafurs during the siege of Antioch and again during the siege of Jerusalem, we believe him. Yet they are never mentioned in the reports the Crusader princes sent to Rome and to the kings of Christendom. We must remember that they existed, and many of the Crusader victories would have been impossible without the presence of these wild and relentless soldiers dedicated to poverty.
Bohemond, who came to appreciate the Tafurs and used them effectively, himself possessed something of their spirit. He had their ruthless ness, their cunning, their contempt for danger. With Antioch under siege and the Turks pressing hard against the walls he sometimes behaved like an army of Tafurs. At night he would race through the streets by torchlight, in search of deserters and traitors, rounding up the starving soldiers who slept in private houses, sending them to guard the walls; and sometimes he found it necessary to flush them out by burning down houses. In this way whole districts went up in flames and Bohemond would be seen with drawn sword, giving commands, cursing the imbecility of the soldiers who preferred sleep to fighting Turks.
Though he was not bedridden, the Count of Toulouse was too ill to assume the full defense of the city. He was given the task of isolating the Turkish soldiers cooped up in the citadel to prevent their escape. Bohemond was given full powers. He organized the defense of the city to the last detail, and in the same way he organized the great sortie on June 28, 1098, which led to the rout of Kerbogha and all his forces.
During those weeks in June strange things were happening in Antioch. Men suffered from hallucinations, saw divine portents in the sky, and were exhilarated by the knowledge that God would protect them against all odds. Barefoot priests walked along the ramparts, consoling the starving soldiers. It was at this time that the Holy Lance was found, bringing hope of ultimate victory, for it seemed that God had placed it among them in order to hearten them.
Early on the morning of June 28, the army of Antioch marched out through the Gate of the Bridge against the army of Kerbogha, who could have prevented them from leaving the gate by massing his troops outside it. He was so sure that he could defeat the Christian forces on the plain outside of Antioch that he permitted them to come out. He was playing chess when he heard that the Christians were pouring out of the gate. He was advised by his Arab commander to attack at once. Instead he continued his game of chess and said something about the need for the whole Christian army to appear so that he could destroy it with a single overwhelming blow.
The Christians continued their steady advance while Kerbogha ordered his troops to retreat to rougher ground, luring the Christians further from Antioch. He seemed so certain of victory that he paid scant attention to the disposition of his forces. The Christians, too, were certain of victory. The Holy Lance beckoned them on their way. Some soldiers said that on a hillside they had seen a company of horsemen with white banners, and they thought they recognized St. George, St. Mercurius, and St. Demetrius. All the portents indicated victory. Kerbogha ordered his men to set fire to the grass. This might have been dangerous to the Christians, but the wind blew toward the Turkish lines instead. While the grass crackled with flames, and the army advanced, and the Tafurs crept around the Turkish defenses, Kerbogha lost his nerve, and his army disintegrated. By the end of the morning the battle was over, Turkish dead were everywhere, and Kerbogha fled in the direction of Mosul, leaving his treasure and his stores of food and provisions to the Christians. For the first time in many weeks the Christians were well fed.
The historian Raymond of Aguilers was among those who took part in the battle. His task was to be the bearer of the Holy Lance, carrying it on a long pole so that it could be seen by all the soldiers. To the end of his life he believed the Holy Lance was the instrument of victory.
The Finding of
the Holy Lance
OF the handful of men who recorded the First Crusade as it happened, the most intelligent was Raymond of Aguilers, who was a canon attached to the Cathedral of Le Puy and the chaplain of the count of Toulouse. He was a man of the Auvergne, kindly, sardonic, deeply religious, accustomed to hardship and not overtalkative, unlike the Provençal soldiers who formed the greater part of the count’s army. The chief characteristics of men of the mountainous Auvergne are a certain reserve and a certain canniness in weighing up evidence. They are somewhat secretive, do not try to stand out in a crowd, and do not suffer fools gladly. Raymond liked and admired the Provençal soldiers and at the same time stood a little apart from them.
He wrote his history, which he called Historia Francorum Qui Ceperunt Iherusalem, with the declared purpose of correcting the errors of men who had deserted and returned to France, where they spread wild stories about the excruciating hardships undergone by the Crusaders. Raymond was not himself particularly interested in hardships and he leaves some of the most terrible passages unrecorded. He wrote in a clear, muscular style, consciously or unconsciously quoting from the Bible, and, unlike Bishop Adhémar, he was interested in relics and visions and the sudden manifestations of divinity that sometimes interrupted his care of the souls of Provençal soldiers.
So it came about that shortly after the fall of Antioch, a Provençal peasant named Peter Bartholomew came to him with a story so improbable that scarcely anyone could be expected to believe it. Peter Bartholomew said that Christ and St. Andrew had come to him four times, requesting that he should deliver an urgent message to Bishop Adhémar and the Count of Toulouse. The message was a simple one. He, Peter Bartholomew, must be allowed to present to the bishop and the count the Lance that pierced the side of the Savior. Peter Bartholomew went on to say that during the day’s fighting outside the city, he had been caught between two horsemen and almost choked to death during the retreat. Finally, when he sank down, almost dead, outside the walls, lying on a rock, shivering with shock and fear, St. Andrew came to him again, with a companion. The saint said that great evil would befall Peter Bartholomew unless his message was delivered immediately.
Raymond of Aguilers was intimately acquainted with Bishop Adhémar and the Count of Toulouse, and he was sufficiently impressed to arrange a meeting. It would never have occurred to him that St. Andrew and Christ might have saved time and energy by communicating directly with the bishop and the count, for h
e knew that God sends messages through his humblest subjects and an authentic vision could suitably have come from a poor peasant. Peter Bartholomew was received graciously, and, in the presence of secretaries who took down his words, he said that he had received the first vision five months earlier when the Crusaders were encamped outside the walls of Antioch. On the last day of the year there had been an earthquake. At night, alone in his hut, in mortal terror because the earth was shaking, he had called upon God for aid—“Deus adjuva me!”
It was the cry of a soldier in battle or a man on his deathbed. The earthquake lasted for a long time, and all the while he was becoming more terrified. Then he looked up and saw two men in shining costumes. One had red hair sprinkled with white, a bushy white beard, black eyes that were well suited to his countenance, and was of medium height. The younger and taller man was beautiful beyond the sons of men. Peter Bartholomew had no doubt that the younger man was Christ. He related to the bishop and the count what had happened:
Knowing that no one was there, I cried out in great fear: “Who are you?”
Then he said: “Rise up, do not be afraid, and listen to me. I am Andrew the Apostle. . . . Follow me and I will show you the Lance of our Father, which you shall give to the Count, for indeed God has set it aside for him from the time of his birth.”
I rose from my bed and followed him into Antioch, naked except for my shirt. We went through the north gate to the Church of blessed Peter the Apostle, which the Saracens had transformed into a mosque. In the church there were two lamps that shone with so much light that it was as though it was midday. And then he said: “Remain here.” Then he bade me stand beside the column near the steps which lead up to the altar from the south, and his companion remained at a considerable distance, in front of the altar steps. St. Andrew reached beneath the ground and drew out the Lance, which he placed in my hands.
“Behold the Lance which pierced his side, whence came the salvation of the whole world.”
While I held it in my hands, weeping for joy, I said: “Lord, if you so wish, let me take it and give it to the Count.”
And he said to me: “No, wait until the time when the city is taken. And then come here with twelve men and seek it in the place where I drew it out of the earth and where I now replace it.” And then he buried it. When all this had taken place, he led me over the walls to my own house and then they vanished.
Peter Bartholomew evidently spoke with great deliberation and gave all the appearance of saying something that he believed to be true. The most famous sentence reads: Ecce lancia quae latus ejus apervit unde totius mundi salus emenavit. It was a bold statement, saying that the lance-thrust brought about Christ’s death and this in turn brought about the salvation of the whole world. To soldiers such a statement would be entirely comprehensible; it would be less comprehensible to theologians. The Crusaders had a battle cry, Deus vult, but they lacked a symbolic image. Now at last a symbol was to be given to them—a lance of hammered metal only a few inches long, something one could hold in the palm of one’s hand, almost insignificant in appearance, but fraught with meaning.
All this had happened many months before, and the bishop and the count may have wondered why he was so late in relating his vision. Peter Bartholomew said he simply dared not at that time approach people of great eminence. The vision had evidently terrified him, and he was even more terrified by the prospect of telling his story to the bishop and the count. At Lent, he found himself in camp in the neighborhood of Edessa, foraging for food. Once again, St. Andrew appeared to him accompanied by his silent companion. St. Andrew asked him whether he had delivered the message, and Peter Bartholomew replied that he had failed to do so out of a sense of his own poverty and insignificance. St. Andrew rebuked him sternly:
Do you not know why God brought you here, the greatness of his love for you, and above all how he made choice of you? He made you come here in order to avenge him and to avenge his people. His love for you is so great that there are saints who are now at rest and who are aware of his fondness for you that they desire to take on flesh and fight by your side. God has chosen you from all the nations just as grains of wheat are gathered from oats. In merit and grace you stand out above all who went before you or will come after you, as the price of gold exceeds that of silver.
St. Andrew’s rebuke, and his vast flattery, were unavailing. Peter Bartholomew fell ill, his eyes began to trouble him, and he made a will, disposing of his few possessions. He had taken service under a certain William Peter and was resting in a tent overlooking the port of St. Symeon. It was the eve of Palm Sunday. Now St. Andrew appeared for the third time, and once more he asked whether the message had been delivered. Peter Bartholomew answered that he had prayed that someone else might be sent, someone wiser, someone they might listen to. And then there was another reason: although the port of St. Symeon was close to Antioch, he was afraid of the Turks he might encounter on the journey. St. Andrew said, “Don’t be afraid! No harm will befall you!” Then he went on to give Peter Bartholomew precise instructions about what the Count of Toulouse should do when he reached the River Jordan: he must not allow himself to be baptized in the river but must take a boat to the other side, and then he should be sprinkled while clad in a shirt and linen breeches, and thereafter when his clothes had dried, he should put them away and keep them together with the Holy Lance.
Peter Bartholomew returned to Antioch, made some feeble attempts to contact the bishop and the count, and then in despair went off to the port of Mamistra, intending to take ship to Cyprus, where there was abundant food and where there were no Turks. Here, for the fourth time St. Andrew encountered his unwilling messenger, warning him that he would be severely punished if he failed to carry out the saint’s orders. It was a three-day journey from Mamistra to Antioch; the countryside was infested with Turks, and the thought of traveling to Antioch was so depressing that he became hysterical. He decided to reach Cyprus at all costs. Three times the ship set out for Cyprus, and three times it was blown back by storms. Peter Bartholomew fell ill. He realized now that he could no longer escape from the power of St. Andrew. A few days later he heard the news that Antioch had fallen to the Crusaders. Ill though he was, he made his way back to Antioch, sought out Raymond of Aguilers, and told him the story of his visions.
Peter Bartholomew was not the only visionary who saw Christ and the saints. The Crusader camp teemed with visionaries. Everywhere there were exhausted men starving and in terrible danger and in a state of religious exaltation. Raymond of Aguilers, himself no visionary, believed in Peter Bartholomew’s visions, and he also believed in the visions of a Provençal priest called Stephen of Valence.
Fearing that the Turks were about to overwhelm Antioch, Stephen of Valence with a few companions entered the Church of St. Mary, made his confession, received absolution for his sins, and began to chant hymns. His companions at last fell asleep, and the priest found himself saying over and over again, “Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? Who shall dwell in thy holy mountain?” Suddenly a man of great beauty appeared to him.
“Who have entered Antioch?” the man said.
“Christians,” Stephen replied.
“If they are Christians, why are they in dread of the multitudes of pagans?”
Gradually, as they were talking, Stephen began to see the form of a Cross appearing above Christ’s head. It grew brighter until it shone like the sun. Out of this brightness there came a voice urging the Crusaders to turn away from sin and to remember that he was the Lord of Hosts, mighty and powerful in battle, before whom all the pagans would be compelled to bow down. Christ spoke with immense authority. His last words to the priest were, “I shall be compassionate toward you if you do what I command in five days.”
Although Antioch was in Crusader hands, fear of a massive attack was uppermost in men’s minds. Panic swept through the city. Some of the knights, including William of Grant-Mesnil, who was Bohemond’s brother-in-law, slipped over the walls
and made their way to the seacoast. Bohemond and Bishop Adhémar ordered the closing of the gates to prevent wholesale evacuation. A meteor appeared over Antioch, seemed to hover in the night sky, and at last broke up into three separate streaks of light, which all plunged into the Turkish camp. No one knew what it meant, only that it was ominous. Stephen of Valence’s vision of Christ, the coming of the meteor, the paralyzing knowledge that Kerbogha was about to attack and that some of the knights and many of the soldiers were attempting to escape from the city, led Raymond of Aguilers and the Count of Toulouse to weigh the evidence. They asked themselves what Christ meant when he said, “I shall be compassionate toward you if you do what I command in five days.” What did he command? In Raymond of Aguilers’s mind it meant that they must search for the Holy Lance that lay somewhere below or near the high altar of the Church of St. Peter. Christ was offering them a sign: the Holy Lance, which was almost in their grasp.
On the morning of June 14, five days after Stephen of Valence had seen the vision, Raymond of Aguilers entered the Church of St. Peter, having chosen twelve of his friends to witness the finding of the Lance. The church was closed off: no one was allowed to enter or depart without the chaplain’s permission. Raymond was determined that the Lance be found.
The digging went on feverishly all morning; more diggers were brought in; Peter Bartholomew explained where he expected to find it; and by evening there was nothing to show for their labor except a gaping hole below the high altar. Suddenly, when they had almost lost hope, Peter Bartholomew threw off his gown and jumped into the hole wearing only his shirt, and he summoned all those who were present to pray that the Lance would be revealed. They prayed, and Peter Bartholomew saw the point of the Lance sticking out of the earth. Raymond of Aguilers clambered down and kissed the point before the Lance was extricated from the earth. There followed wild rejoicing, the Lance was offered up on the high altar, hymns were sung, bells were rung, and on the following day the Lance was carried in procession through the city.
