by Simon Acland
In between, the water sparkled blue like lapis under the sunlight’s dapple. Even at that early hour it was already busy with craft of all shapes and sizes: imperial galleys beating the waves with their banked oars, fast feluccas hung with white triangles of sail, and heavy cargo vessels struggling along low in the water, their holds weighted with precious freight. On still days, vapour smoked from the surface in wispy tendrils, and the whole rich scene shimmered in the sun. Overhead, flocks of seabirds wheeled and dived with raucous cries. Some were all white and grey; others had neat black heads and made me smile because they looked as if I had dipped them up to the neck in my inkpot. Busy as I was, assisting Godfrey with the many preparations for the campaign ahead, I returned again and again to the beguiling sight of the Bosphorus. It was fortunate for my master that I was still young and romantic enough to allow my attention to be drawn by those famous straits.
Many mornings, just as dawn was beginning to touch the sky, I walked down to the strand to watch the sun varnishing the walls of the city across the water. My favourite vantage point was a broken tower overlooking a small jetty. Supplies for the army were occasionally unloaded there but I liked it because at that early hour it was always empty and peaceful. One morning, a fortnight after landing on the eastern shore, I climbed the short flight of steps up the tower and was surprised to see one of the fast lateen sailed craft docked at the jetty. A hurried transaction was underway, money passing from the hand of a cloaked figure, and a small flagon being given in return. The Smyrna merchant on the boat then quickly turned away, looked nervously from side to side and gave the order to cast off. It was clear that he did not want to be found there in the daylight. As the purchaser turned, his silhouette was cut sharp against the water, now silvered like a mirror by the rising sun. I saw that it was Bagrat and ducked behind the tower’s flaking walls. I waited as Baldwin’s creature passed by on the path below, a sneer of satisfaction twisting his face. Allowing a safe distance between, I slipped quietly down to the path to follow him back towards the camp.
Bagrat seemed in a hurry, perhaps not wishing the break of day to strip him of the cloak of darkness. As he approached the camp, instead of turning left as I expected towards Baldwin’s quarters, he bore right, in the direction that I would have followed myself to return to my small tent alongside Godfrey’s grand pavilion. Now I had to hang further back to remain unseen, for here the path levelled out. Between the tents Bagrat disappeared from sight, and I had a moment of panic before glimpsing him again, now heading back the way I had first expected him to take. He looked less furtive, as if his purpose had been fulfilled. With surprise I saw that he no longer carried the newly purchased flagon that he had handled with such care. My puzzlement turned to awful suspicion and I ran in alarm to my master’s tent.
I knew that Godfrey was wont to break his fast with a draft of wine and water. I threw aside the flap covering his tent’s entrance and saw him sitting up on the new couch provided for his ease by the Emperor. To my horror he was raising the customary goblet to his lips. He turned his head angrily at my sudden intrusion, giving me just enough time to dash the cup from his hand before he drank. The wine splashed across a new rug, and he erupted with fury.
“My God, have you taken leave of your senses? What in Hell’s name do you think you are doing? See what you have done to the carpet. Fine silk given me by the Emperor, damn it.”
“Poison, my Lord,” I gasped, and we both turned our gaze to the mess that one of Godfrey’s favourite greyhounds was now lapping fastidiously. The dog whined plaintively as its thin legs trembled, crumpled and gave way. It rolled onto its side and twitched spasmodically in its death throes. Godfrey’s angry amazement gave way to relief as I stammered out what I had just seen.
“So Baldwin has made the move we expected,” concluded Godfrey when I had finished. “Yet I cannot openly accuse my brother. He has too many admirers in our ranks. It’s too dangerous for me to risk a public rift. And he’ll be well-prepared in case we attempt to repay him in his own coin. I’ll take more precautions. I’ll have tasters try my food, and lay plans so that Baldwin will know that we are on his track. I’ll be safer if he sees that he will not benefit from my demise.”
Godfrey gripped my shoulder.
“Thank you Hugh. Once again you have served me well.”
I glowed with pride.
Baldwin was summoned to Godfrey’s tent on the pretext of discussing the army’s plans. I fancied I saw surprise and disappointment well-veiled in his black eyes at the Duke’s good health. In a great show of bonhomie, Godfrey sat his brother down, and with an earnest expression offered him a goblet of wine. Frostily Baldwin replied that he had decided to abstain until he had reached the Holy City.
“I’ll hold you to that,” laughed Godfrey, and Baldwin’s expression froze colder still. In that look I clearly read that Godfrey would not be secure whilst Baldwin could safely harm him without suffering disadvantage from his brother’s death.
Four days after this excitement, on the third Sunday after Easter, a great council of war was to be held. Godfrey dictated to me a letter for Bohemond of Taranto.
‘My Lord Bohemond, it would give me great pleasure if you would do me the honour of joining me in my camp two days before the council. When we met at the ceremony of your oath before the Emperor, I saw at once that you stand with me head and shoulders in body and in spirit above the other noble leaders of our crusade. It behoves us to work together for mutual success and to that end I would spend time in discussion and relaxation with you before our meeting with the other princes.’
Bohemond responded eagerly to Godfrey’s overture. On the appointed day he was ferried across the strait to the same jetty that had witnessed Bagrat’s treacherous transaction. There he was greeted with loud fanfare by Godfrey, Eustace and a smartly turned out guard. I felt proud that my presence at Godfrey’s side was now taken for granted. Baldwin, uninvited, remained sulking in his tent.
Bohemond was half a head taller even than Godfrey. Their encounter reminded me of the meeting between my abbot and Holy Father Pope Urban a short year and a half before. Then the great new abbey church at Cluny had provided a fitting backcloth for those two towering pillars of the Church; now the exotic setting of the Bosphorus made an equally appropriate stage for these two tall warriors on whom the success of our campaign rested. I was surprised to see how similar the two men were. I could almost imagine them as twins. Like Godfrey’s mane, Bohemond’s hair was blonde, but straight and cut short just below his ears. Bohemond was clean-shaven but shared Godfrey’s blue eyes and the expression that spoke of boldness and ambition. Godfrey looked broader and more deeply muscled, but when I studied the two of them more closely I saw that Bohemond’s impression of relative slenderness was just given by his greater height. With all the charm at his disposal, Godfrey reached forward and grasped Bohemond’s right hand in both of his.
“My brother-in-arms,” he said, and I wished that black Baldwin had been standing by to wince at those words.
“It is not often that I have to look up to one of my fellow men, but in the case of Bohemond of Taranto, I am honoured to do so.”
The Norman laughed with pleasure at this flattery.
“You know that my real name is Mark, after the holy Evangelist? But as I grew my father nicknamed me for the giant of legend. So I have been known as Bohemond ever since.”
Turning, Godfrey reached his arm around his new friend’s shoulders and walked him towards the pavilion, the guard of honour marching behind. He beckoned me to follow but made it clear that the others were to stay outside. I warmed with pleasure at my inclusion, feeling that this confidence was the just reward for saving my master’s life. Bohemond’s expression of surprise at my company deflated me again, but Godfrey explained that I was his cousin-scribe and would be asked to document part of the conversation.
“My Lord Bohemond, you and I are similar men of similar ambition. I am not here to further the aims of the Churc
h, and certainly not to recover lands for the Greek Emperor. I am here to carve out a dominion for myself. If, thanks to our Holy Father’s dispensation, such an action earns me a place in Paradise, then I’ll not argue.”
Godfrey laughed. I flinched at such frank irreverence.
“We are the only two men who can lead this army to success, and we should support each other to win through to our objectives. Two great cities lie ahead of us around which fine fiefdoms can be built to fulfil our desires – Antioch, and Jerusalem itself. I propose that you should take Antioch for your own. I will support you in that goal, and in return Jerusalem will be mine with your acquiescence. We’ll swear an oath of loyalty to each other, written and witnessed by friend Hugh here. It will provide that if either of us should fall on the way the other’s vassals and knights should acknowledge the leadership of the survivor.”
Bohemond’s brow furrowed as he considered Godfrey’s bold proposal. Godfrey continued.
“Let me be open with you, my friend. I mistrust my brother Baldwin. He has already made one attempt on my life. I wish to remove any temptation towards another, and if he fears that he would have the fierce Bohemond of Taranto to contend with when I am gone he will leave me in peace. It is well-known that my elder brother Eustace plans to return home after reaching Jerusalem, and he is too easy-going by far to provide any counterweight to Baldwin.”
I smiled at Godfrey’s audacious cunning. I saw Bohemond thinking hard, and recognised, strong soldier though the Norman might be, that Godfrey was the more accomplished diplomatist and plotter. Then Bohemond’s brow smoothed again and his handsome face relaxed into a smile.
“I asked Emperor Alexios to appoint me Grand Domestic of the East. That’s the title he gives the commander of all his Asian armies. He denied my request. Maybe he remembered the campaigns I fought against him in the Balkans under my father’s command! He hinted that the title might be mine after I had proved my loyalty in battle. But he did not offer me Antioch. Once it was the second city of his empire. I’ll freely say I like your offer. And the way it is made, my Lord Duke Godfrey!”
Godfrey turned towards me, and I saw triumph in his eyes.
“Come on Hugh, write out what we need.” And turning back to Bohemond, “Now my friend, let’s celebrate. I’ll have some wine brought, with some delicacies to savour. We need some warm flesh – both living and dead.” His deep laugh rang out, thickened with gluttony and lust.
I went back to my own tent to sharpen my quills and polish my parchment, trying to close my ears and concentrate on writing as the sound of drunken carousing rose in the nearby tent and women’s giggles turned to sounds of pleasure.
For the council two days later, Godfrey had a grand pavilion erected. It was decked out with his carpets and silks and all the other gifts he had received from the Emperor. I thought it a fine display – not the Boukoleon perhaps, but impressive none the less. Godfrey stood together with Bohemond at the entrance to welcome the other Crusader leaders. Baldwin, banished to a subsidiary role, watched in bitter chagrin.
First came Raymond of Toulouse, scented and pomaded by oils from the fragrant shrubs for which his Provençal homeland was famous. Raymond was older than the others, approaching his sixtieth year, and his once black hair was grizzled grey. His empty left eye socket bore testimony to his valour against the Moor in Spain. Beside Bohemond and Godfrey he lacked physical stature; to make up for it he adopted an air of gravitas and urbanity. Accompanying Raymond hobbled the representative of the Holy See, Adhemar, the Bishop of le Puy. I remembered this grey, measured and respectable Bishop for the uncharacteristically impetuous enthusiasm with which he had flung himself forward when inspired by Pope Urban’s great speech at Clermont eighteen months before. I wondered why he now limped, and later heard that he was still recovering from the wounds inflicted by the Emperor’s troops when they set on him overzealously after he strayed from the path followed by the rest of Raymond’s army.
Godfrey courteously showed his guests to a round table at which eight tall chairs were set. Godfrey and Bohemond sat side by side with Raymond and Adhemar to their right, and Eustace and Baldwin to their left. The number was made up by two Byzantine generals. I observed them carefully from my place behind my duke’s chair. The one called Tatikios in particular cut a striking figure. He was mocked behind his back by the Frankish leaders, for after the bizarre custom of the Byzantine court he was a eunuch, as his corpulence and high voice confirmed. For all this lack of manhood, however, his dark round face, mutilated like Count Raymond’s, attested to his bravery in battle. In combat he had lost his nose, and now wore a golden replica in its place, behind which his breath whistled gently.
“So,” said Godfrey with a great show of geniality, “Here we have our council of princes. We will not attempt to appoint one commander for how could any one of us in all conscience defer to another? But I would have you all know one thing. To seal our alliance, I have appointed Lord Bohemond as my heir and successor to my command, and he me, should either of us fall in battle.”
Godfrey beckoned me to hand him the document that I had prepared. Nervous at feeling all eyes on me, I placed it before him. With an extravagant flourish he made his mark upon it, passing it over to Bohemond to do the same. The company looked most surprised at this dramatic gesture. I was pleased to see Baldwin’s bloodless face turn paler still as he realised that for the time being his ambitions had been thwarted. Overawed though I felt by the solemn occasion, it was a struggle for me to keep triumphant glee from my own face, and I knew from Godfrey’s choked expression that it was costing him a similar effort. I caught a slight tremor of victorious amusement in his voice as he continued.
“I think we are all agreed that our first objective must be the city of Nicaea, are we not? We must recapture the place where our Credo was composed and free its Christian population from near twenty years of Turkish tyranny. That will be sweet revenge for the death of Hermit Peter’s followers.”
“Yes,” Bohemond answered with military pragmatism, “and will secure our line of communications southwards.”
“Ni,” agreed one-eyed Raymond in his nasal Provençal accent. The other knights nodded their assent.
A few days later our frenzied preparations came to an end and we started. Perhaps those early days of the journey were coloured by my eagerness. In any case, I remember thinking that the green hills on the way to Nicaea were delightful, sprinkled in that early spring by yellow cup-like flowers of a type I had not seen before and studded with straight cypresses and bent pines. In front of the pass that split the hills, a forest of these trees had been razed and dead wood scattered over the ground. I began to think with pleasure of the blazing camp fires that we would light that evening to drive away the April chill. But as I came closer, I recoiled in horror. No forest had been cut down here. This was where an army had been chopped to pieces. Here it must have been that Peter the Hermit’s rabble had been caught by the Turks and massacred. Here was the place where dead men lost their bones. I was gripped by the hideous thought that Blanche might have met her end here too. In anguish I wandered amongst the bleached skeletons as the shadows lengthened, making ghosts of the broken shapes. I prayed as I had never prayed before. Surely her beauty could not have met its end here. To some of the hollow skulls there still clung sad wisps of hair, useless to the beasts which had picked the bones clean of flesh. Nowhere could I see any that matched the fine golden silk that I carried next to my skin. The carcasses of some baggage carts remained on the battlefield, their wheels and frames too battered to be carried off by the victors. Thinking that the camp followers would have been gathered here, I searched hardest nearby but found few human remains. Perhaps most had been taken alive, spared death at least for the ransom they might bring, or for the slave price they might command. My stomach churned as I wondered again whether to wish this fate on Blanche, or a quicker death. I tried not to give up hope. I tried to tell myself that in Nicaea I would hear word. But anger a
nd despair burrowed into me like the insects that had bored into the slaughtered bodies all around, devouring my faith and my optimism.
My mood remained grim as I witnessed my first siege. Nicaea was encircled. A relief force sent by Sultan Kilij Arslan was beaten back. I had no action to calm my turmoil, as Count Raymond’s Provençals bore the brunt of this sharp engagement. Further round the line, I had to wait with the Lotharingian contingent, watching lest the garrison took the opportunity to sortie. Then began the efforts of the army of the Holy Cross to spread terror and disease amongst the civilian population of the city. The siege catapults provided for us by the Emperor were put to macabre use pelting the severed heads of the dead over the city walls. Christian soldiers roughly hacked the heads from all the Moslem corpses they could find, sniggering at their dark foreign faces while they worked their blades between their vertebrae. At least this was work for men-at-arms and not for knights. To strike even greater terror into the unfortunate citizens we held penned inside Nicaea, wounded prisoners were strapped alive to the catapults, and flung through the air alongside the decapitated heads of their fellows. I was appalled at the ghoulish amusement taken by the red-crossed soldiers of Christ from the thin screams released by these living human missiles as they flew through the air, and nauseated when they were punctuated by the sound of the bodies breaking against the ramparts.
Otherwise the catapults and mangonels were not much use against the double ring of stout walls girdling the city. Impatient, our leaders instead decided on a dawn assault with ladders. I was excited by my first prospect of battle, but scared too, so my feelings were mixed when I woke from a restless sleep to the surprising sight of imperial banners flying over Nicaea’s walls. Emperor Alexios’s subtle diplomacy had achieved the city’s surrender during the night. I felt pleasure and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks that our objective had been achieved without bloodshed or harm, but I hid my feelings from my comrades. They were furious at being denied the opportunity to loot and pillage. Some salve was provided by the Emperor in the form of further presents – food for all the common soldiers, and more gold and jewels for Godfrey and our other leaders.
