The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

  And for sure, another half day’s riding brought me within sight of the great cloud of dust thrown up by the Turkish army. As dusk fell, I moved off the path to camp in a patch of rock-strewn ground, protected from sight by some large boulders. I rose with the sun and cautiously picked out a path behind a rough escarpment which I judged ran parallel to the army’s path. From the manner of the marches in which I had taken part, I thought that Kerbogha’s men would rise at dawn but would then take a couple of hours to get underway. That would give me time to circle into a position from which I could observe their passage. So I rode until the sun was two hours higher in the sky, then dismounted and hobbled my horse in some thin grazing watered by a small stream. On foot I climbed to the top of the escarpment and to my satisfaction found myself looking down from behind a screen of rocks upon the bottom of the valley which must form the army’s route half a mile below. The sight that came into view gave me cause to tremble for the Crusaders at Antioch, and for the success of my quest.

  The Atabeg of Mosul had assembled a vast host. As it passed by in the valley beneath, the sun rose to its zenith and sank again, so that the army must have taken fully eight hours to pass. The main column was preceded by a screen of lightly armed scouts, mounted on fast horses with fine small heads, tightly reined in by their riders. Their white robes and rope-bound head-dresses flowed out behind them as they rode. Then followed thousands of cavalry, drawn from many different tribes, to judge by their diverse styles. Some wore pointed metal caps, some turbans, and others helmets wound about with cloth. Many carried the curved bows which had so harried Bohemond’s followers at Dorylaeum; others were armed with lances or javelins, and most carried curved or straight swords at their sides. The sun glinting on their helmets reminded me to make sure that mine was well covered by my hooded cloak, lest a reflection warn of my presence and bring riders swarming upon me. Many were cloaked in white, others in rough brown, a few in the green which I now knew from Mohammed to be the sacred colour of Islam. Light round shields of hide or metal hung from their shoulders, some covered in alien devices. Each company or regiment followed its own emir and his banner, often embroidered brightly in Arab or Persian script.

  I estimated the cavalry alone at some twelve thousands. Behind them plodded doggedly the infantry. Companies of archers and spearmen were intermixed with baggage carts and pack animals. Amongst these lurched disjointed animals with long curved necks and humps on their backs. Later I discovered that these creatures – camels by name – could carry a heavy load for days without food or drink. I thought how it might have been to have had some on the desperate dry march after Dorylaeum. At the rear followed another strong mounted force. In all, Atabeg Kerbogha must have gathered a force of forty-five or fifty thousand fighting men.

  When the troops had passed by, I slipped carefully down from my vantage point back to my horse. Thirsty from watching in the hot sun, I drank from the stream and refilled my water skins, before riding cautiously forward once more. Again I was able to move ahead of the Saracen army and camped discreetly for the night. Under the black velvet star-spangled sky I almost began to enjoy my second sojourn alone in the wilderness. Before, I had been frightened, aimless, sorrowing, tormented by my sinful slaughter of Bagrat. Now, I felt confident, purposeful, determined in my quest, anxious only to succeed and to return to claim Blanche. This time, no black, turbulent dreams disturbed my sound sleep, but instead happy memories of my woman.

  Daybreak woke me again and I at once set off, thinking by now to be safely ahead of the army. However, I had reckoned without Kerbogha’s white-robed scouts. Returning towards the main valley road, hoping to make good time across the level plain, I saw three of them fanned out in front. For an instant I thought to melt away into the cover of the rough ground, but they were too close. They saw me and wheeled in my direction. I soon knew that I could not outrun them. Their horses were faster and carried lighter burdens. I would have to fight. For the first time I would face an enemy soldier hand to hand. With this realisation came a sudden rush of excitement. I fumbled my lance from its sling. Its weight momentarily unbalanced me, before I settled back in my saddle, pressing down on my stirrups and spurring forward. Taken by surprise, the leading Arab was too slow to evade this sudden charge. My lance crunched against his chest. His eyes widened, his face contorted in a silent scream. The force of the blow thrust me backwards in my saddle. To keep my seat I had to allow my weapon to twist sideways from my grasp. It had gone so deep into my victim’s unprotected body that I could not wrest it out. As his horse ran past, he twisted off stone dead to the ground, my lance quivering in his centre.

  I scarcely had time to take in my success, because the other two horsemen were upon me. For an instant I thought I would not get my sword out in time. Then I felt its long blade loosen and heard it come rasping from its scabbard. I was too late to dodge and had to ride straight between them, answering their harsh war cries with an inarticulate roar. Two curved swords blurred down from either side. I parried to the right and heard steel ring true on steel. To the left I swung my shield. A heavy blow, only part blocked, struck my shoulder. But then I was through.

  Gripping with my knees, I wheeled my horse. The force of the blade on my shoulder as yet caused no pain, and I prayed that it had not cut my mail coat. Now I could manoeuvre. I addressed the right-hand rider, spinning away from the left. My ferocious blow knocked his raised scimitar down to one side. With a trick remembered from those lessons at Bouillon, I swung my sword back in a reverse thrust. The sharp blade bit deep into the base of my adversary’s neck. He tumbled from his horse, the side of his white cloak soaking with blood. I kicked forward again, feeling the wind from a savage swipe brush my face. With the excited thought that it was now one-on-one, I turned back to my remaining adversary. Fear and panic rose in the last Arab’s face, as he pulled his horse round to flee. But he was too slow to avoid my sword thrust into his unarmoured torso, so that he too dropped to the ground with an awful cry.

  I did not pause to retrieve my lance, for fear of other horsemen lurking nearby. Breathing heavily I sheathed my blooded sword and galloped on. I now felt the aching pain of the blow to my shoulder, as the joint began to stiffen. I shook uncontrollably as my excitement subsided. In its place rose a feeling of empty regret. For the first time I had killed infidel enemies. It had been a fair fight, but I remembered that they were husbands or lovers, loved-ones like me. Perhaps the only difference was that they had more family to mourn them. Angrily I asked myself why they had tried to stand in my way, why they had forced me to take their lives. But then I had no time for further reflection; over my throbbing shoulder I saw another group of horsemen some two hundred paces away.

  The plain in front sloped down to a distant river, spanned by a stone bridge guarded by stout gated towers at either end. Suddenly I recognised that I might be trapped. I had not thought that there might be a river to cross in front of me. If the bridge was held by the enemy I would be finished. I looked to either side for another place to cross, but the waters were wide and the current strong. Then I realised that if the river could be forded no bridge would have been built there. A volley of arrows rushed past me, well wide, for at that range and at a gallop even the most skilled horse archers would struggle to hit a fast-moving target. Even so, they were near enough to remind me what would happen to my horse if they came closer. My mount was tiring beneath me, beginning to stumble where the ground was uneven, and I dug him hard with my spurs to drive him over the remaining half mile toward the river. I would have to trust to luck. Then, as I hurtled closer I spotted with relief the familiar red-crossed standard flying above the nearer tower. But the Arabs on my tail were gaining fast, eager to avenge their comrades, their horses fresh. The skin on the back of my neck prickled, expecting to feel a barbed missile at any moment. Another volley whistled over my head and I leant lower over my horse’s nape. Then I realised that it came from the friendly battlements in front. A quick glance over my shoulder sh
owed me that it had warned my pursuers off. Thwarted, they wheeled away. The gate in front of me creaked wide and I hurtled safely through.

  The garrison that greeted me presented a sorry sight. They were gaunt and thin, clearly underfed for many months on end. They were nervous and suspicious too, for before I had had time to draw breath one man-at-arms had grabbed my horse’s bridle, and the others had surrounded me with their spears raised.

  “Can’t you see that I am one of you?” I exclaimed in some irritation. Nevertheless, as I dismounted one of them pulled rudely at my hurt shoulder. I turned in pain and in anger and was about to strike him for his insolence when their haggard commander bustled up.

  “Thank you for opening your gates,” I smiled, “and thank you chasing those Arabs off my tail with your volley. I am Sir Hugh de Verdon. I was once in the household of Duke Godfrey de Bouillon. I left the Duke wounded some nine months back and went with his brother Baldwin to Tarsus and Mamistra. Then I was captured by the Saracens. I have been held a prisoner in a castle far to the East. I managed to escape and have followed the footsteps of a great Turkish army. It is now less than two days’ march from here. Tell me, though, is Lord Godfrey alive? And what of his brother Baldwin? Have we won Antioch?”

  The captain of the gate listened to my speech with his mouth half open under his scruffy beard. He seemed almost too tired to speak.

  “Duke Godfrey is alive. He walks with a limp, but he lives. They say that his brother Baldwin has made himself Count of Edessa, a rich city somewhere over the mountains to the north there. Messengers came from him some time back, bringing a few horses and provisions. That was weeks before we took the city. Praise God, it fell just two days ago. We have the great Lord Bohemond of Taranto to thank for that. He found a traitor and brought – or bought – him to our side. This traitor commanded a tower in the southern wall. He gave our men entry at the dead of night. The fight was fierce but the city is ours. Otherwise we’d still be out there on that damned godforsaken plain.”

  “Praise be to God and thanks to Lord Bohemond indeed,” I answered. I found myself grinning at this news, and at my expression of glee even the captain’s exhausted face lifted a little. My first reaction was excitement that I could now get to the Cave Church and fulfil my quest. My second was relief that Baldwin was far away and could do me no harm. Then I thought of the news I carried and put on a sombre expression.

  “I fear that the victors will shortly become the besieged. The army behind me is at least fifty thousand strong. I have tracked their passage and counted their numbers. They are just days behind me. You cannot hold them here. Fall back with your men to the city, before the enemy’s full strength falls on you. Fall back – even their vanguard will be far too strong for you.”

  The captain said with proud resignation that he had his orders to hold the bridge for as long as he could. “This is the only road by which the enemy can pass. Every extra hour that we can win gives another hour to prepare the defences of Antioch itself. They call this the Iron Bridge, and my men and I will earn it its name by the strength of our defence.”

  I did not see the same resolution on the faces of the men nearby. I clasped the captain’s hand. “God be with you then,” I said and climbed back into my saddle, taking the reins from the nervous soldier at my horse’s head. “Good luck.”

  I kicked my long-suffering mount into a clattering trot over the bridge and through the second tower to carry my news on to the city. On my right now ran the broad River Orontes, curving southwards from the bridge. In the distance to the left of the river a mountain shimmered blue-grey through the dusty haze off the plain. The plain itself was utterly desolate, dusty, brown and bare, wasted by the ravages of the battles which had raged for months back and forth across it. I understood what the captain had meant. Once there must have been rich fields and orchards; now only broken trees and trampled ground remained. The walls of Antioch stretched from the river to the foot of the mountain and then scrambled steeply up its flank to run along its ridge, enclosing the city. The saw-toothed battlements gave them the ominous look of the jaws of some giant mantrap hinged at the base of the hill. Like Constantinople, Antioch’s walls were built of brick-banded stone by long-dead Romans. Those emperors might have honoured the fortifications of their eastern capital with more breadth and height, but they had drawn on deeper reserves of skill to plant the walls of Byzantium’s second city up that precipitous slope.

  Closer to, I passed earthworks doubtless thrown up for the siege, and these looked crude and puny in the city’s shadow. The contrast between ancient might and modern weakness became sharper still when I rode beneath the nearest of the towering gates. I answered the challenge of the guard and a postern opened to admit me into the city where I remembered Saint Peter held his first see and the disciples were for the first time called Christians. I asked eagerly where I might find Duke Godfrey, and followed the directions down the main street which led arrow straight from the gate.

  On all sides Antioch bore the scars of combat. Dead bodies of men and women – and the sad small shapes of children too – lay in the streets and alleyways, swelling and stinking in the heat, feeding clouds of buzzing flies. Some feeble efforts were being made to drag corpses away to burial or cremation, and the air was choked with the sick smell of charring human flesh so redolent of war. Dried blood darkened the square Roman stones of the street and in places had splashed high on the walls. I had never before seen the gruesome aftermath of a battle for a city’s heart. As I looked around, I shuddered and wished that I could turn back the way I had come. The only creatures which looked comfortable and well fed were the dogs which slunk around, or lay lazily in shady corners, sated on corpses. All the human creatures looked famished and wild-eyed. The storm of the city had plainly not yielded the provisions for which the victors had hoped. As I watched, one of the dogs fell victim to an arrow from a hungry soldier’s bow, and the others ran off yelping in sharp indignation at this interruption to their repose. The siege must have lasted so long that the former defenders had left no supplies of food for the victors. My horse attracted glares of jealous hunger. I resolved to keep a close eye on him.

  Those mournful streets infected me so that my high spirits had sunk low by the time I reached the building pointed out as Godfrey’s headquarters. It had once been a fine palace but now was battered and ransacked. I explained my business to the guards and rode into a small courtyard. Dismounting tiredly, I winced now at the pain burning my shoulder. I tied up my horse and gave strict instructions for him to be guarded closely, backed up by threats of awful vengeance. To my pleasure, the men showed more respect than I had been used to before, as if I now exuded greater authority and power.

  I found Godfrey seated in a large chair at one end of a long table, looking disconsolately at a platter containing a small rat-shaped piece of meat, grumbling to his attendants that there was not even any wine left to wash it down. His once-blond hair and beard were grizzled and his face was thinner and etched with lines. The Duke started as if he had seen a ghost and broke off his complaints.

  “What apparition is this? It can’t be. It looks like my Hugh. Surely that cannot be?”

  He raised himself from the table, and, limping slightly, came forward with an embrace.

  “You are no spectre. You feel like flesh and blood.”

  I flinched and gasped at the pressure on my hurt shoulder.

  “Are you wounded, my friend?” asked Godfrey.

  I smiled. In fact the pain had now subsided somewhat, in spite of the force of the Arab’s blow. “Compared to the wound with which I left you, my Lord, it is nothing.”

  Godfrey grimaced at the memory.

  “Yes, that was bad. But as you can see I am better. I limp, it is true, but I can ride a horse without much discomfort. Most important of all, I can ride a woman too.”

  He guffawed, and then his face darkened again.

  “Although they tell me I’ll never now sire an heir…. But tell
me of your adventures. I had word from Baldwin of his seizure of Edessa. If he wanted to make me jealous with his tale of the rich fiefdom he had won, he succeeded. And to poison the chalice further still, he told me that you were lost, dead in some skirmish on the way. He had the nerve to say that I would receive no spy’s report from you. I thought he’d murdered you. I feared that from my sickbed I had sent you to your death. So by what miracle can it be that you are now standing before me?”