by Paul Doherty
‘Why not?’ Theodore insisted. ‘Remember, Antioch is a sprawling city with orchards, parks, houses, cellars and passageways. Turks still shelter in the city, well armed, well fed, with treasure and food. They must have heard about Khebogha’s approach. They know the citadel is still being held. All they have to do is hide long enough and deliverance will come. We are three such people. We hid as long as we could, then decided to escape. It’s happening every day; why shouldn’t we flee? The Army of God is depleted and starving.’
‘The information we bring?’ Eleanor asked, trying to keep her throat wet to avoid any show of fear. ‘How did we gain that?’
‘Quite simply,’ Theodore shrugged, ‘we are in Antioch. Armenians and Turks mill about the streets, the blood lust is over, we mingled with this person or that. Let’s look at it from Khebogha’s point of view: why should we risk coming to him as traitors? No, no, our story will be believed. Eleanor, if you do not want to come, do not. The same for you, Simeon. However, it would be more logical, more convincing if all three of us were to explain how, after the Twin Sisters fell, we went into hiding, managed to survive, mingled with the Army of God, were discovered and fled. Count Bohemond is correct. Whatever happens, Khebogha must not move.’
The questioning continued. Eleanor tried to hide her own anxiety under Bohemond’s powerful scrutiny. She fully understood the logic of his plan. She’d heard the rumours of how people were deserting, fleeing, so why shouldn’t they? Their explanation was convincing enough. It was well known that Turks were hiding out in the woods, valleys, parks and orchards of the city, well armed and dangerous.
‘You will leave by a postern gate near St George,’ Bohemond explained. ‘You will be pursued and shot at but you will successfully escape. Once you are in Turkish hands, you’ll be safe. If they believe your story, so will Khebogha. Well?’
Eleanor glanced at Simeon, who sat, eyes closed, rocking himself backwards and forwards, silently mouthing a prayer.
‘I will go,’ Eleanor whispered, ‘but the Lord knows it’s dangerous. What if, and I say this, what if Firuz told someone else? What if some Turk knows we helped him betray the Twin Sisters and that Turk is now with Khebogha?’
‘No!’ Theodore used his fingers to emphasise his points. ‘The Twin Sisters fell during the dark. Only Count Bohemond, Hugh and Godefroi knew of our involvement; everyone else believes it was Firuz alone. On the night the towers fell, Simeon and Imogene were kept close. You, as I told you to, stayed in the shadows; the men who passed you that night were battle-crazed. I disappeared immediately with Hugh and Godefroi . . .’
‘Were you preparing for this?’ Eleanor half laughed.
‘No,’ Theodore replied. ‘Preparing for failure, the prospect that the attack on Antioch might be repulsed. We would have had to concoct some story, very similar to this, that Firuz was the traitor whilst we were true adherents of Yaghi Siyan.’
‘I will come to Imogene in a moment,’ Hugh interrupted. ‘But apart from her, and possibly Beltran, only the people in this chamber know the real truth about the betrayal of the Twin Sisters. Firuz and his men are dead and we shall now use that to our advantage.’
Eleanor recalled the corpse sprawled across the threshold of the tower, blood gushing out in the dim light. She wondered if that had been Firuz, an accident? Or had he and others been deliberately killed by these ruthless men? Eleanor felt cold, detached.
‘What if,’ Simeon retorted, ‘a spy in Antioch tells them the truth?’
‘Which is?’ Bohemond asked.
‘That when the city fell, we rejoined the Army of God, who accepted us for what we were, heroes!’
Again that calculating look from Bohemond. Hugh and Godefroi just sat, shoulders hunched. Hugh chewed the corner of his lip as if he had already reflected on what Simeon had said and knew the answer.
‘Who knows that you’ve been accepted?’ Godefroi replied. ‘You’ve sheltered in this house for the last three weeks. How many people know? Nobody except a few trusted members of the Poor Brethren of the Temple.’
Eleanor now realised why she and Simeon had been kept so close. Few people understood what had truly happened at the Twin Sisters; that had been a closely guarded secret.
‘There may be a traitor,’ Hugh spoke up, ‘amongst our brethren, that’s what Count Raymond thinks. However, remember that only the people in this room, together with Imogene, and possibly Beltran, know your full role in Firuz’s treachery. I swear to this, since Antioch fell, both Beltran and Imogene have been kept under the closest scrutiny.’ He smiled. ‘I think they know that. Moreover, you will flee Antioch late on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of June; we leave by Bridge Gate on the morning of the twenty-eighth. No spy will have enough time to send a message to Khebogha, whilst you will carry those heads as proof of the story you will tell. Why shouldn’t Khebogha believe you?’
‘We will go,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘It is dangerous, but what we face here is equally perilous. We can at least try.’ She pointed at Bohemond. ‘But, God willing and we reach Jerusalem, you must swear that whatever I want, whatever I ask for will be given. If not from you, my lord Bohemond,’ she turned to her brother and Godefroi, ‘then from you and Count Raymond.’ All three solemnly agreed. Theodore looked surprised. Simeon murmured something about his freedom, lamenting the danger, then the meeting ended.
Two days later Theodore was ushered up on to a lonely stretch of the battlements near St George Gate. Bohemond’s men, who should have been on patrol, were secretly and abruptly withdrawn. An arrow was shot into one of the wooden pillars of the bridge. A Turk ran into the pool of light thrown by a cresset torch. The arrow was snapped off and the man disappeared into the darkness. Late the following morning, Eleanor, Theodore and Simeon slipped through the stinking streets towards a large park that bordered on the Gate of the Goat, a needle-thin postern door about sixty yards from St George Gate. Eleanor, sweat-soaked with apprehension, carried a set of panniers stuffed with her paltry possessions. She felt very alert, aware of everything and everybody: a dog sniffing at a corpse lying in the mouth of a dark alleyway, two soldiers fighting over a basket of wild plants and herbs, a group of young men and boys bloated with hunger.
They hurried down a dark path that cut through the park, Bohemond’s men stood on guard beneath the trees. A short distance away, along a rocky gulley, others were clearing away the rubbish and pulling off the beams across the postern gate. The three horses were saddled; Hugh and Godefroi in full armour stood guarding them. They helped Eleanor into the saddle, whispered their love and good wishes, then, like some dream in the night, Theodore urged his horse forward. Eleanor went next, followed by Simeon, and their horses gingerly picked their way down the narrow gulley of loose shale. The postern door creaked open. An officer beckoned to them, then they were through. Theodore urged his horse forward, and all three cantered out along the winding path, galloping furiously towards the narrow bridge across the Orontes. Immediately the make-believe pursuit began, led by Hugh and Godefroi; soldiers, swords drawn, stumbled out through the gate, screaming and waving their weapons. On the battlements archers loosed shafts that passed dangerously close. Eleanor was aware of her horse at full charge, its head bobbing, hooves clattering. The air reeked of that horrid sweet-sour stench of corruption, and corpses and pieces of armour and weapons littered the ground.
The shouts behind them faded. Eleanor’s horse checked itself, then followed Theodore’s, iron hooves pounding the wooden boards of the narrow bridge then on to rocky ground, the grass dry and sparse. As Theodore swerved to the right, galloping along the river bank, shouts and cries echoed from the battlements. Theodore slowed down as a group of Turkish horsemen, cloaks swirling, thundered towards them. He reined in, Eleanor and Simeon behind, and quickly raised his right hand, palm extended, shouting loudly, repeating the same gasping words. The Turks surrounded them, eyes gleaming in white-cowled dark faces. Theodore’s sword and dagger were quickly plucked from his war belt. El
eanor waved at the cloud of dust threatening to block her eyes and throat. Another shout, and an officer in gleaming breastplate and damascened helmet, blue cloak flying, galloped up gesturing with his gloved hand that the riders pull apart. The tension was almost unbelievable. The Turks were undecided what to do. The only thing that had saved the deserters was that they had been pursued from the gate and galloped directly towards the Turkish outpost. The officer reined in, pulling a scrap of parchment from the cuff of his sleeve. He thrust this at Theodore, who nodded, pointed back at the gates and spoke quickly, urgently, repeating the name Khebogha several times. Theodore acted the part of a deserter with vital news which his new-found allies must know. He spoke excitedly, as if he was the possessor of all the deepest secrets of Count Raymond and the rest. He patted the two leather sacks tied securely to his saddle horn. Firuz’s name was mentioned. Theodore turned, hawked and spat into the dust. The officer, taken in by the high drama, was convinced. He shouted at his men, Theodore’s weapons were returned, then the officer led them off at a furious gallop, a moving wall of dust across the Antiochene plain.
They must have ridden about five miles before they reached the picket lines of Khebogha’s camp. They slowed down as they entered the main lane leading to its centre. Eleanor’s heart sank. Khebogha’s army was the great horde of Asia. Chieftains and emirs had responded to their caliph’s call to annihilate the Frankish invaders. Masses of foot soldiers thronged in their body armour, heavy cavalry with their helmets and mail hauberks, all armed with spear, dagger and curving sword, and of course everywhere those deadly Turkish archers on their swift, nimble mounts. As far as Eleanor could see stretched a veritable forest of tents and pavilions of different colours and fabrics. The army seemed well provisioned, situated close to a river and lakes. The horse lines housed great herds, all plump, sleek and glossy-coated. Along the ground nearby ranged row upon row of the high-peaked saddles so favoured by the Turkish bowmen.
They were told to dismount, then led to the Atabeg’s tent, a gorgeous purple pavilion with silver ropes and golden tassels. The pavilion and its surrounding tents were cordoned off from the rest of the camp by a palisade, its double-gated entrance guarded by splendidly attired warriors in gleaming armour. Inside were planted the Atabeg’s standards and banners, fixed into spigots driven into the ground. Eleanor glimpsed glossy horses being trotted around by grooms. Scribes sat under awnings, writing trays on their laps. At the entrance to one vermilion-coloured tent stood a group of beautiful maidens, long black hair hanging down free, their golden skin swathed in diaphanous gauze veils. The sound of music and laughter echoed. Eleanor took heart at this. Khebogha had decided not to advance. He was confident enough, apparently viewing the impending battle as already won.
Khebogha’s personal guards took Theodore’s weapons. They were searched and then, with a soldier on either side, escorted into the cool, fragrant-smelling pavilion. Khebogha sat on a pile of cushions. He was a young man with an imperious, arrogant face, small black eyes and a hawkish nose above thin lips. He wore a white turban and a loose embroidered robe. He seemed more concerned with the chess set before him, jewelled ivory pieces on a lacquered board. He spoke angrily to his opponent, an old white-bearded man, then turned to greet his three visitors, who were forced to kneel just inside the entrance. Either side of Khebogha squatted his emirs. In the poor light all Eleanor could see were dark faces, coloured turbans, a flash of white or the glitter of silver or gold thread.
At first Khebogha was openly hostile. He pushed away the chess board and squatted, hands hanging between his knees, as he questioned Theodore. Eleanor calmed herself. Khebogha was arrogant; Theodore was very clever. He told the Atabeg exactly what he wanted to hear. How Count Raymond was ill, the leaders of the Franks divided; they were bereft of horses, starving, weak, desperate for home and openly mutinous. They intended to leave Antioch by Bridge Gate just after dawn the following day and march north, not to do battle but to negotiate their way through into Byzantine territory. It would be, Theodore concluded triumphantly, a matter for Khebogha to decide whether they lived or died. The Atabeg openly rejoiced at this. He nodded vigorously, turning to his colleagues, intent on demonstrating that what Theodore had described was precisely his own perception. They must not move but let their forces outside the gates of Antioch harass the Franks. The main Turkish force must sit, wait and spring the trap. Voices were raised in dissension but Khebogha ignored these. A shadow moved to Eleanor’s right. One of the Turks leaned forward as he salaamed and gave his advice to Khebogha. Eleanor caught her breath. Baldur! The handsome captain, the seducer of Asmaja, the real cause for the fall of Antioch. Theodore and Simeon had also identified him but kept their poise. Baldur, whatever his private thoughts, was apparently desperate to hide his own role in the tragic events of the Twin Sisters’ fall. He dared not voice his suspicions without laying himself open to serious accusation. Seduction of a fellow officer’s wife would be as heinous amongst these pious Muslims as it would be with the leaders of the Army of God. Antioch had fallen because of Baldur’s lust; that would be regarded as his death warrant.
Simeon later whispered how Baldur, instead of attacking or criticising Theodore, had insisted that Khebogha question the Greek on his own credentials. Theodore, as Eleanor later discovered, complied adroitly. He gestured at Eleanor, describing her as his wife. He then described their desertion from the Army of God. How they had been accepted by Yaghi Siyan and entrusted to the care of the traitor Firuz at the Twin Sisters tower. How Firuz had betrayed his post for paltry gain and how Theodore, consumed with rage, had killed both Firuz and his brother. At this point he pushed forward the two leather sacks a servant had placed beside him. The severed heads were exposed to murmurs of appreciation followed by curses directed at these grisly trophies. At this juncture Khebogha clapped his hands. Ice sherbet and saffron cakes were served to his visitors, whom he now called his guests. Theodore, Simeon and Eleanor relaxed. Food and drink had been served; they were accepted.
Theodore now waxed lyrical. He described how he had cut one of the ox-hide ladders Firuz had lowered, a detail known to the Turks, then explained how they had hidden in Antioch, seizing food and horses whilst sheltering in the dense park close to the Gate of the Goat. How they had mixed with the Franks and learned their plans until they had been discovered. Suspicions had been raised so they had no choice but to flee. Theodore did not describe himself as a convert to Islam or even willing to serve Khebogha but as a simple mercenary who’d realised the Franks were finished and needed to flee. In the end Khebogha nodded, clapping his hands, looking around at his companions. The decision was made. Let the Franks emerge from Antioch. They would be harassed by his outposts and then destroyed by his main army. Theodore, Eleanor and Simeon were allowed to withdraw. They were given a small tent within the royal palisade and settled down to await events. Eleanor spent a tense day and night sleeping fitfully, disturbed by the sounds of the camp; only later did she discover exactly what had happened.
Bohemond left Antioch as predicted, though what Khebogha did not realise was that the Franks were intent on a fight to the death. Negotiation and surrender were now regarded as total anathema. The Army of God spilled out of Bridge Gate. Every type of horse had been gathered and fed with whatever fodder could be found. Hugh of Paris swept ahead to clear away any obstacle; his archers unleashed intense volleys at the Turks, who retreated in shock at the brutal and unexpected assault. The Norman French under the two Roberts, Flanders and Normandy, followed, then Godfrey of Bouillon with the Germans. Adhémar of Le Puy led the Provençals. Next to the warlike bishop his chaplain carried the sacred standard, the Holy Lance, which, the bishop had proclaimed, would bring them total victory. Behind all these thundered the fifth squadron under Bohemond’s blood-red standards. The execution of Bohemond’s plan was exceptional. The Army of God swiftly formed a rough semicircle about a mile wide, one flank on the foothills to the west, the other on the river Orontes. Those Turkish squadro
ns besieging the city gates moved to harass the Franks. Reinhard of Toul, with phalanxes of French and German knights, turned to meet them, but not to defend; instead they attacked like a pack of ravenous wild dogs.
In his camp Khebogha calmly organised his army into two broad divisions. Standards and banners were unfurled. The holy cry went up: ‘Allah is God! There is no God but Allah!’ The devout Muslims, once this prayer was finished, rose from their cloaks and makeshift prayer carpets and donned their battle harness. The Turks had been assured that they would spring a trap and easily destroy the Frankish army for good. Unbeknown to them, a mass of desperate soldiers, also trusting in God, were tramping through the dust towards them. Traders and farmers, garbed in rags and armed with rusty meathooks and axes, marched steadily behind their leaders; some even walked hand-in-hand with their young sons. Priests clothed in the vestments of the Mass chanted prayers as they grasped cudgels and clubs.
The Turkish advance guard attacked the Franks on their right flank, setting fire to the dry weeds along the river bank. The Army of God, behind their sacred standard, simply walked through the fire, beating at the flames with their cloaks. The smoke billowed. Turkish horsemen galloped through it like wraiths, fierce spectres armed with spears and rounded shields. They were met by a savage assault which brought down both horse and rider; lance, spear, axe and dagger whipped through the air, clubs rose and fell, swords hissed and hacked. The Army of God suffered casualties, men falling from every type of wound; these were left on the ground with grass or wild flowers thrust into their mouths as their host for the last sacrament. They whispered their dying confessions to the breeze and passed their weapons to the more able.
The Turkish cavalry charged, but the Frankish infantry still held firm. Again the Turks attacked, then recoiled in horror as mounted grey shadows thundered through the battle murk towards them. Mailed knights, lances couched, smashed into the Turkish line. More knights appeared, lances gone, drawing their long death-bearing swords. Turks fell, to be swept up by the Frankish foot now surging forward. The ground grew slippery with blood. Men staggered around screaming, with intestines pierced or tumbling out, their throbbing wounds pumping blood. Then the hammer blow. Bohemond’s scarlet banner appeared! The mailed giant led his elite fighters deep into the Turkish squadrons. The Army of God surged forward like some huge boulder crashing down a mountainside. The Turks became nervous and panic-stricken. The air rang with screams of ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ Mailed horsemen exultantly chanted hymns and psalms. Knights even took off their helmets and flung them at the enemy. Heavenly riders were glimpsed fighting on the Frankish side. The first Turkish line shattered completely, then broke and fled.
