by Paul Doherty
‘Perhaps . . .’ Theodore smiled. ‘God helps those who look to Him for help.’
‘And perhaps,’ Eleanor murmured, ‘those who are prepared to give Him a helping hand?’
‘Precisely,’ Theodore whispered. ‘Eleanor, in Jerusalem lie the holy relics of Our Saviour. What if,’ he stared up at the sky, ‘such a relic could also be found here?’
The answer to Theodore’s question came swiftly enough. Peter Bartholomew, who had mysteriously disappeared for a few days, re-emerged and presented himself before Count Raymond and Adhémar of Le Puy with the promise of a revelation. Peter’s demand for an audience was like an answer to a prayer. In the city, panic was beginning to spread, people wondering what fate they could expect. The news of the impending revelation coursed like fire through stubble, and when Peter presented himself, the message delivered by his powerful voice was repeated throughout the city. ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘Andrew, the Apostle of God and of our Lord Jesus Christ, has recently admonished me for the fourth time. He has commanded me to give back to you, after this city was captured, the lance that opened the side of Our Saviour. I have not obeyed him. Today I went out of the city with the rest to do battle. I was caught between two horsemen. I was almost suffocated and sat down sadly on a certain rock, almost devoid of life. I was faint, exhausted from hunger, fear and grief. St Andrew came to me in a dream with a companion. He threatened me much unless I gave the news to you quickly . . .’ At this, both the count and the bishop interrupted him, asking him to explain what he meant.
‘Months ago, when the first earthquake shook Antioch, I said nothing, God help me. One night when I lay down, the earth shook again. My fear increased, and looking up, I suddenly saw two men standing before me in the brightest clothing. The first was older with red-white hair; his beard was wide and thick and he was of medium stature. His companion was younger and taller, handsome beyond any likeness of the children of men. The older man said to me: “What are you doing?” I was very frightened and I replied, “Who are you?” The man retorted, “Rise and do not be afraid and listen to what I am saying to you. I am Andrew the Apostle. Bring together the Bishop of Le Puy and Count Raymond of Toulouse and say these words to them: ‘Why has the bishop neglected to preach and admonish the People of the cross, for it will profit them much?” ’ And he added, ‘Come, I will show you the lance of Our Lord Jesus Christ and you shall give it to Count Raymond, as God intended for him to hold it ever since he was born.’
‘I rose therefore and followed St Andrew into the city dressed in nothing but my shirt. I passed unharmed through the streets of the Turks and he led me into the Church of St Peter the Apostle, which the Turks had turned into a mosque. Inside the church two lamps shed as much light as if the sun was pouring through. He told me to wait and commanded me to sit at the base of a pillar close to the steps leading to the altar. He went ahead of me and disappeared as if going down into the ground. He then emerged, bringing forth a lance, which he thrust into my hands. He said to me: “Behold the lance which opened His side from which the salvation of the whole world is come.” I held it in my hands, weeping for joy. “Lord,” I asked, “if it is Thy will, I shall take this and give it to the count.” And he said to me, “Not now, for soon the city will be taken. Then come with twelve men and seek it from the same place I drew it from and where you shall find it again.” And he put the lance back. After these things had happened, I was led back into the camp to my own tent. When I woke up, I reflected about the condition of my poverty, and I was too terrified to approach you. Anyway, it was the first day of Lent, around the of time of cockcrow, that St Andrew reappeared to me, in the same garb with the same companion, and a great brightness shone around them.
‘ “Are you awake?” St Andrew asked.
‘ “My Lord, I am not asleep.”
‘ “Have you done what I have told you to do?”
‘I replied, “Lord, I have prayed for you to send someone else to them. I am only a poor man, they will not believe me.” He replied that God had chosen Peter Bartholomew from amongst all men as a grain of wheat is gathered from chaff because he could see in me merit and favour.’ Peter then explained how this message comforted him, though he had still remained silent, until now.
The news of Peter Bartholomew’s vision spread through the city, as did his offer to test the truthfulness of his message by going to the Church of St Peter and searching for the lance. Other visionaries came forward recounting similar tales. Soothsayers and conjurors recalled the meteor that had fallen over Antioch, the earthquake, and how heavenly warriors had been seen amongst their ranks.
Eleanor listened with interest. She tried to entice Theodore into conversation but he simply pressed his finger against her lips and would not be drawn. Hugh and Godefroi acted likewise. They were now both desperate, urging the count to go to the newly converted Church of St Peter the Apostle and search for the lance.
‘It is our only hope,’ they whispered. ‘If that is found, the great relic will be our rallying call.’
At last the count agreed. Accompanied by Theodore, Hugh, Godefroi, Peter Bartholomew and others, he went to the Church of St Peter; this was cleared of worshippers, though people gathered around the doors, the crowd increasing as word spread through the city. Paving stones were raised, and the spot the visionary had pointed out was feverishly searched, but nothing was found. Count Raymond left St Peter’s to jeers. Hugh, Godefroi and Peter Bartholomew, however, continued to dig. Theodore told Eleanor what happened next. They had cleared the earth, digging deep, when Peter Bartholomew himself stepped into the pit wearing only his shirt. He knelt for a while offering solemn prayers to God, and a short while later, dislodging a rock in the wall of earth around him, put his hand in and drew out the spear head, the sacred point of the holy lance. He kissed this and held it up.
‘A sign!’ he cried. ‘God wills it. We have God’s approval.’
The news of the finding of the holy lance swept through the city. A sign had been granted! A miracle had taken place! The leaders immediately met in council and voted that Bohemond should take command of the entire army for the next fifteen days. Adhémar ordered three days of prayer and fasting as well as processions through the streets, invocations, litanies and masses. Exultation now replaced despair. The Franks believed the Angel of Death had withdrawn. The army roused itself and prepared to leave the city to meet Khebogha in full battle. Eleanor, shaken from her lethargy, tried to join in the celebrations, but she and Simeon were kept close in the merchant’s house. Eleanor did not object, as she did not wish to become a burden on the rest. A way forward was now open. They would have to fight or die a lingering death.
Eleanor admired her brother’s cunning, though as she confided to Theodore, she was growing increasingly alarmed by Peter Bartholomew’s change of character as he was lionised and revered amongst the Army of God. He waxed full of fresh visions, becoming the virtual mouthpiece of the Almighty. The leaders accepted the sacred lance but became increasingly jealous of Peter Bartholomew’s insistence that Count Raymond had been specially chosen by God to carry it. Hugh and Godefroi realised that their newly enhanced prophet had to be curbed. Quiet words of advice were given, and the sacred relic was formally handed over to Bishop Adhémar in a public ceremony. The leaders were satisfied, though Bohemond, raging around the city like a ravenous lion, was dismissive of the lance, more concerned about organising the army for battle. The Franks now numbered about twenty-five thousand, but only three hundred horses were fit for battle. Nevertheless, Bohemond intended to gamble, using tactics similar to those employed against Ridwan of Aleppo. Five divisions were organised. Those knights who could not ride were organised into tight phalanxes of foot. They were given strict lectures on the tactics of the Turks, the importance of staying together and of following the directions of their respective leaders. At first Eleanor could not understand why Bohemond, his yellow hair now cropped close, face all fiery, those strange blue eyes gleaming, became a const
ant visitor to their house in the Street of Incense. Stranger still, he brought precious food, baskets of bread and bowls full of sweet delicacies. The house had its own stable, and three horses, fairly plump and strong, were also brought in and given the best fodder. Eleanor noticed how she, Theodore and Simeon became the principal recipients of the food, secretly served once darkness fell, away from prying eyes.
On the Feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist, Bohemond, garbed in a stinking, stained leather hauberk and dark blue leggings, his Spanish boots all worn and scuffed, came to join them at the evening meal. He loudly proclaimed how St John was his patron saint and that he would celebrate the feast day. He came blustering into the house, clasping Hugh and Godefroi’s hands, patting Simeon on the shoulder, embracing Theodore and giving Eleanor a fierce hug that lifted her off the ground, his unshaven stubble prickling her face. He dropped her as he would a bundle of cloth, then scratched the sweat beads on his neck.
‘Lord knows how I’d love a woman thrashing beneath me, but don’t tell that to the bishop!’ Bohemond spread his hands and roared with laughter at his own joke. Then he plumped down on the cushions and gestured at the others to join him. His great hands broke the unleavened bread, stubby fingers searched out olives from the bowl, great white teeth tore the cooked quail flesh. Every so often he would gulp from his goblet and thrust it out for Simeon to refill. He burped and winked at Eleanor, then licked his fingers, leaned across and thanked her for the deliverance of the Twin Sisters tower.
‘And Firuz?’ she asked.
‘Dead.’ Bohemond pulled his face all solemn, eyes mournful. ‘He was killed by mistake in the first foray.’
Eleanor caught a shift in those light blue eyes and wondered if Firuz had been marked out as too untrustworthy to use any further.
At last the great giant declared himself satisfied and clambered up to inspect, as he put it, his ‘lovely lads’ who guarded doors and gateways against any spy or eavesdropper.
‘Not only from the Turks,’ Theodore murmured. ‘There’s growing bad blood between Raymond and Bohemond over who will hold Antioch.’
‘I heard that.’ Bohemond came back into the room. He patted Theodore on the back and sat down on the cushions.
‘But first, before we sell the bearskin, let’s kill the bear!’ He dipped his finger into his wine cup and on a white napkin drew a crude map of Antioch. ‘Here is the citadel on Mount Silpius, held by the Turks. They can communicate with the enemy outside by raising flags as well as by messenger. Each of the main gates, St George, Bridge Gate, Duke Gate and St Paul’s, is now besieged by the Turks. Further to the north lies Khebogha’s main camp. They have about eighty thousand men to our twenty-five thousand. They must have heard about this bloody . . .’ Bohemond checked himself, ‘our sacred lance but they certainly don’t know that we’ll fight! Out tactics will be simple. The Army of God will deploy in five divisions. The first will be led by Hugh of Paris. He will swiftly sally out and attack the enemy, driving them off, creating time and space for the rest to leave.’
‘By which gate?’ Hugh asked.
‘The entire army will leave by Bridge Gate. The northern French, under Robert of Normandy and Robert of Flanders will follow Hugh of Paris. Next, Godfrey of Bouillon commanding the Germans, whilst Bishop Adhémar will lead the Provençals.’ Bohemond shrugged. ‘I understand Count Raymond has not yet recovered from an illness. Tancred and I will lead the fifth squadron. Once we leave the city, we will deploy in a semicircle and advance across the plain, keeping the Orontes on our right flank, to confront Khebogha. I need not tell you the dangers of such a plan.’
‘As we deploy,’ Hugh declared, ‘those Turks besieging the gates will attack our flanks and rear.’
‘Worse,’ Godefroi added, ‘if Khebogha advances swiftly towards us, we’ll be encircled and crushed.’
‘Very good, very good,’ Bohemond breathed. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought you would say, but the enemy will not expect us. Tancred and I will take care of any attack from the rear. The Turks on the other gates have to cross the Orontes. They will be loose, scattered, easy to brush off, more of an irritant than anything else. The main threat is Khebogha, but he has made a great mistake. Too wide a gap divides his main camp from Antioch. If we can leave, deploy, brush aside the outposts and aim like an arrow for Khebogha’s army, we might seize victory. Our men are desperate yet inspired. They now realise it is either fight and be victorious or face certain death!’
Eleanor felt her stomach pitch, and a cool ripple of fear crossed her back. She could see what Bohemond was plotting. His plan was crude, simple but very effective. The Army of God would pour out of the city across Bridge Gate and form up on the plain outside. They would advance north, their right flank protected by the river. Those Turks surrounding each gate might attack, but they’d be taken by surprise. They would have to ford the river and would be reluctant to take on the main Frankish host. Those in the citadel could do little; fearful of treachery or betrayal, they would stay there until the battle was decided. However, if Khebogha moved his massive army and marched, the Army of God would simply be surrounded, trapped and annihilated. She glanced up sharply. Hugh and Godefroi refused to meet her eye. Theodore was staring down at the crude map as Bohemond tapped his fingers against it. Beside her, Simeon was shivering slightly.
‘You have to convince Khebogha not to move,’ she said. Bohemond’s ice-blue eyes held hers. ‘You have already begun that, haven’t you?’
He nodded imperceptibly.
‘How?’
‘Very easy. One of my commanders was killed in the fighting around the citadel. We made great play of trying to reclaim his corpse, but eventually we were driven off. He was a good soldier.’ Bohemond narrowed his eyes. ‘A fighting man; he loved the sun, the wine. He’d marched east to make himself a great lord. He vowed that he would serve me in life and death, and he certainly did. I deliberately left a letter on his corpse. The Turks in the citadel will have read it and passed it on to Khebogha. In that letter to the Emperor Alexius, I reveal that I have been made commander of the Army of God, and that I intend to desert Antioch and leave Count Raymond to meet his fate.’ Bohemond smiled. ‘After all, the animosity between us is well known, as is the fact that we plan to march back into the Emperor’s dominions.’
‘So Khebogha won’t move.’ Simeon spoke up. ‘He’ll stay in his camp, where there is a supply of fresh water, away from the contagion around the city. He knows all he has to do is just sit and wait. His garrisons at the city gates will inflict damage on you, perhaps weaken your army . . .’
‘Precisely.’ Bohemond tapped on the table. ‘And by the time we reach Khebogha, we’ll be depleted, burnt by the sun, starving and thirsty. We may surrender, we may put up some resistance, but . . .’ he shrugged, ‘why should Khebogha come looking for us when we will come to him? We’ll have to tramp under the sun, through the dust clouds, and suffer attack. He thinks he is the hunter just waiting to spring his trap.’
‘How do you know Khebogha has read your letter?’
‘Very simple,’ Bohemond mused. ‘He hasn’t moved. He knows from his spies, not to mention the watch in the citadel, that we are massing ready to leave. Nevertheless, he has not moved his camp or even strengthened his outposts around the city gates. No, I think the letter is there; he’s waiting. What we have to do,’ he pointed at Eleanor, ‘what you have to do, is convince him by giving him the precise time, date and place of our departure.’
Eleanor felt her breath catch in her throat, her skin abruptly soaked in sweat. She glared accusingly at her brother and Godefroi. They just stared back, and in that moment, Eleanor realised how much things had changed. What was important to them was not any blood-tie, kinship or former memories, only the future, the vision: Jerusalem! Everything, including herself, was simply a way of achieving that. She stared at Theodore. He looked more composed, though she was sure Simeon’s teeth were chattering.
‘How is it to be done?’ she as
ked quickly. ‘Why me?’
‘The same as before,’ Bohemond continued evenly. ‘You, Theodore and Simeon. During the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of June, the day before we leave, you’ll escape and ride towards Khebogha. The night before, Theodore will have shot an arrow into the enemy camp carrying a message informing the Turks that he will desert the next morning, bringing vital information for the Atabeg Khebogha. You will leave on those three horses specially stabled and cared for; that is why you have also been given food. I want Khebogha to realise that you have been hiding in the city and decided to escape.’
‘But they’ll know . . .’ Eleanor stammered, ‘that we betrayed the Twin Sisters through Firuz.’
‘Listen,’ Theodore broke in. ‘We have been chosen precisely because of that. This is our story. We fled the Army of God and sheltered with Firuz, who quarrelled with Yaghi Siyan. Firuz was the traitor. He held the towers, not us. He was the one who betrayed them to the Franks, so we killed him in revenge.’
Bohemond clambered to his feet, left the chamber and came back carrying two leather sacks. He undid the cord of the first and drew out a severed head. The face was a deathly hue, the eyes closed, the blood-spattered lips half open. Firuz! The severed skin at the neck was clotted a dark red. In the other sack was a second severed head that Eleanor vaguely recognised.
‘Firuz’s brother,’ Theodore explained, ‘killed in the nearby tower, also judged a traitor.’
‘But he wasn’t. I know that,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘Firuz acted on his own; he was fearful of being betrayed.’
‘Of course,’ Hugh intervened. ‘Firuz and his brother were killed by mistake in the first affray when the blood ran hot. It was difficult to distinguish between friend and foe. However, both heads will be presented to Khebogha as the two traitors who delivered Antioch to the Franks.’
‘And he will believe that?’ Simeon’s voice was almost a yelp. ‘That we, well fed, with plump horses, could hide in Antioch for over three weeks, then ride out with the severed heads of two traitors?’
