by Simon Acland
“We must deploy our troops through the Bridge Gate onto the left side of the river as rapidly as we can. Kerbogha has fewer men on that bank and will take some time to get his main force to a position where it can confront us. We’ll divide our force into four main regiments. First a squadron of lightly armed archers will rush out of the gate and drive the Moslems back from the bridge. Then three regiments will deploy across the bridge in the plain beyond; the first shall be the Northern French, the second you, Duke Godfrey, with your Lotharingians, and third Bishop Adhemar with the Provençals, carrying the lance. With Tancred, I will hold my Normans in reserve to sweep down on any Moslem counterattack. Sick Raymond will remain in the city with a small force of two hundred men to counter any attack from the citadel. Each regiment must stay tightly packed. If we can rout the first waves that come against us and put them to flight, Kerbogha’s main force will be thrown into disarray by his own fleeing troops and may fracture and turn tail.”
All agreed that this was the best plan, but Godfrey turned to me and said sotto voce, “We are still outnumbered by at least five men to one. The lance will help us for sure, but we need some more supernatural help. I have another plan for you, Hugh. Your horse is a grey. Gather all those that are left to us of the same colour, and if need be douse some piebalds with whitewash. Twenty mounted men are all you will need. Fashion twenty great banners – one for each man – from the finest samite, white save for a plain red cross. As the main army issues from the Gate of the Bridge, ride out through the Iron Gate on the mountain on the other side of the city. Climb to the top of Mount Silpius and show yourselves charging down its slope towards Kerbogha’s flank. I’ll put a rumour round the army that Saint George, Saint Demetrius and all the other soldier saints are riding down from heaven to our aid. With our troops in this crazy fervent mood they’ll believe anything they’re told and will fight all the harder for it.”
Before my exploits at the wall, I might have doubted my own ability to gather and lead a troop of men on the task set me by Godfrey. Now my stature amongst my fellows was such that I could have found ten times the number I needed, all eager to follow me. With care I spoke individually to the twenty that I judged most discreet and swore each of them to secrecy, but without sharing the purpose of the mission. Two I posted on guard at the gate to the small courtyard behind Godfrey’s quarters, and the rest, furnished with ample funds by the Duke, I ordered to set about assembling the necessary horses and materials.
The day of battle dawned greyly for the end of June, and as the troops took up their stations a gentle drizzle fell down on them. I heard them praising God for this refreshment and the energy it gave to weary man and horse alike. The streets murmured with the prayers of priests. At the head of my little white-horsed troop, our banners furled discreetly, I wound my way in the opposite direction up the steep ravine beneath the Charonian. I hoped for now to avoid the unwelcome attention of the Moslems in the citadel. I made sure to present a calm exterior to my men but underneath I trembled with excitement. Not only was this my first command but also the closest I had yet come to the Cave Church.
Once through the narrow gate across a deep ravine, I understood the challenge set me by Godfrey, for the slope was steep and of treacherous scree. Above to the right I saw a black flag rising above the Moslem-held citadel. My heart stopped for a moment, in case it was a signal that my troop had been spotted. Then I realised that it was just a warning to Kerbogha’s army of the main sally now taking place from the Bridge Gate. The garrison was too preoccupied with that to pay any attention to my small detachment. I raised my hand to signal the halt. My men looked nervous, expectant.
I summoned a grin. “Don’t worry. We are not going to charge the citadel by ourselves. We are heading the other way. Straight up that hill.” I pointed to the right behind me. “When we reach the top, on my command, unfurl your banners and charge as fast as you can down towards the valley. Make as much noise, draw as much attention to yourselves as you can.”
They looked surprised, relieved at their task, and one or two even murmured to their neighbours as they relaxed. I raised my voice. “Don’t think it will be easy. Look at that slope, how steep it is, and the loose scree. It will be just as bad on the far side going down. Saints do not fall. Yes, that’s what you are, fighting saints, riding to the aid of the army. Our soldiers will see you and fight all the harder because God’s holy knights are riding to join them. But if you fall, they’ll take it as a sign that they’ll be defeated and then they’ll turn tail and run. The outcome of the whole battle depends on your horsemanship.” I glared at them. “And when it is over, not a word of this must be breathed. Death will be the punishment for indiscretion, and I will personally make it a slow one.”
I then turned to spur my steed up to Mount Silpius’s left -hand peak. Hearing my men slipping and sliding behind me, I worried that we might reach the top too late. I turned and urged them on. It seemed to take hours to reach the summit, as we crested ridge after ridge, thinking that each was the last but finding another beyond. But then, finally, we were there.
The mountain commanded a wide panorama. Relieved and excited, I could see the battle unfolding below. We were not too late. And things seemed to be going according to Bohemond’s plan. Down to the left our troops were deployed in tight formation on the plain. The rearguard was under great pressure from Saracens who had moved round from their blockade of the city’s southern gates, but was still holding. Our disciplined soldiers, famished maybe, had been toughened by months of hardship. Now they were enflamed by religious fervour, spurred on to make ground against the loose vanguard of Kerbogha’s vast host. In untidy clusters which made a stark contrast to our tight Crusader formations, the patchwork of the Atabeg’s diverse force made haste to reinforce their front line.
“Hurry up, please, it’s time.”
I gave the sign to my troop to unfurl their banners and loosed my own. In a biblical gesture, the clouds chose that moment to part. A bright shaft of sunlight splashed the side of the mountain. I bellowed the order to charge, and hurtled down the precipitous slope, my men close behind. Our shiny banners streamed out behind, over the dust thrown up by our horses’ hooves. The sun’s rays caught the glistening samite and sparkled on the white flags. I imagined an excited roar from the soldiers on the plain below, even above the war cries and the clashing weapons. Exhilaration filled me at my headlong slip-sliding downhill rush, elation erasing fear of a terrible fall and the catastrophe it would bring.
Now, in the valley below, the Moslem line broke in one place as their men turned to run, and then in another and another, like a wave curling back when its force is spent upon the shore. Kerbogha’s front line was now in full retreat, and rushed back into the wave behind, carrying that away too in a fast ebbing tide. The whole mighty Saracen army was now on the turn and began to run, pursued by bloodthirsty Crusaders.
On the gentle lower slopes of the mountain I relaxed and reined in my horse. I gave the order for my unit to drop their banners and disperse. In the fiercest possible tones I again warned of the consequences if any of them told tales of our part in the battle. Godfrey’s stratagem must not be known through the army. The troop needed no urging to draw out their weapons and join the chase. They could see their comrades pursuing the broken enemy back towards the Iron Bridge, and itched to join them in that merciless pursuit.
I felt drained. I’d had enough of blood-letting. I took pride that my part in the battle had reduced the slaughter by contributing to the rapid turning of the Moslem tide. I had no bloodlust left to slake on the unfortunate foe, for they no longer blocked my way to my goal. I knew from my journey with Mohammed that they were ordinary men, who believed in their god, just as we Christians believed in ours. Instead I turned to seek out Godfrey. I found him in Kerbogha’s main camp.
The Duke was directing a group of his followers to load up half a dozen ox carts with some of the choicest spoils. Others were rounding up sheep and goats, as well
as mules, precious horses and some of the strange-looking camels. Seeing them close to for the first time, I burst out laughing at their wrinkled noses and puckered lips, and the lashes of absurd length fringing their moist protruding eyes. It felt like the first time I had laughed freely since the siege of Antioch began. Godfrey was in equally high spirits.
“Well, if it isn’t Saint George,” he muttered in an undertone. “Our little plan worked rather well. You cut a fine figure glittering up there on the mountain. Our men were just beginning to meet stout resistance from those Turks. You gave them the courage and determination they needed. I’ll laugh when I hear how the chroniclers describe the miracle – and also when we learn what they have to say about the Holy Lance! They are all monks, so they will most likely record these miraculous events with a pious absence of doubt!
“Now, look at these victuals – we’ll not be eating rat for a while – nor drinking stale water.”
I saw that one cart was piled high with kegs of wine, sacks of flour and other provisions.
“I tell you, this Kerbogha’s taste is far from poor. Try some of this.”
He offered me a goblet brimming with dark wine, which I gulped thirstily. Godfrey’s expansive manner showed that he was several draughts in front of me.
“And look in here, Hugh.”
Godfrey led the way to one of the larger tents, and in the gloom inside I made out the scared dark almond eyes of some Saracen’s veiled harem.
“It would be a shame not to use them for pleasure before some fanatic comes and spears them all to death.”
The unfortunate women in their exotic robes shrunk away before Godfrey’s unmistakeable gesture. I thought of Blanche and tried to ignore the stirring in my loins.
“My lord,” I said hurriedly, “I will make sure that these carts and animals get safely back to our camp.”
Remounting, I gave the signal to the men-at-arms to drive the wagons forward. Godfrey grinned at me and turned unsteadily back towards the tent.
I picked my way across the battle plain towards the city. Men and birds stole back and forth taking their different spoils from the dead. Here and there half-alive Saracens met their end at Crusader hands. Some groaned and pleaded for a rapid finish to their pain; others, perhaps less hurt, begged for mercy. All their pleas were shown the same face of Christian stone. A spear or sword flashed, a broken body slumped limply back, its earthly torment over. The executioner then stripped anything of use from the corpse, before casting it away, the revealed whiteness of death scarred by livid red wounds. Whose will was now being done?
But even this thought could not wholly destroy my good humour. I had my own concerns and all that mattered to me now was that nothing blocked me from the precious book in the Cave Church.
SAINT LAZARUS’ COLLEGE
The Master groaned. What on earth could he have eaten to make him feel so awful? His agonising stomach cramps injected even more testiness than usual into his voice.
“If you ask me our writer friend has been watching too many ‘B’ movies – isn’t that what they call them?”
This question was directed at the History Don. The Master had summoned him to give his views about whether the Best-Selling Author’s account of the Siege of Antioch was too overblown to be credible.
“You’d be surprised,” the History Don replied. “Fact is stranger than fiction, as they say. That is one reason why I love my subject. So much more interesting than the literature that some of our colleagues set so much store by, and true into the bargain.”
The Master sighed. These academics never missed an opportunity to run down their rivals.
“And the defeat of Kerbogha at Antioch was one of the most extraordinary military events of the age. Even allowing for the exaggeration of the chroniclers, the Crusaders were outnumbered four or five to one. They had no cavalry to speak of, and were exhausted and half-starved. Bohemond handled skilfully the forces at his disposal but there is no way they could have won unless their morale was boosted by their genuine belief in divine intervention. The chronicles speak of the discovery of the lance, and of the military saints appearing just when they were needed. The only way to explain those events to modern minds is in terms of some sort of plot behind the scenes; even the Chaplain would not believe that it really happened as it is written. It’s probably a bit like some of the things your committee got up to when you were in Whitehall.”
The Master scowled.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WILL IT BLOOM THIS YEAR?
Perhaps I did deserve to be punished for my part in the schemes that gave us victory. My motives were selfish, not pure, and my methods those of deceit and calumny.
The day of the famous battle for Antioch was followed by the feast of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the twin patrons of my old abbey. As I took part in the victory procession through the streets to the cathedral, my thoughts cast me back to the calm solemnity of the annual celebrations in Cluny’s church. I remembered then how I had risen before dawn to chant in my sincere faith the praises of the guardian saints of the foundation. The thanksgiving for victory over Kerbogha was an utterly different affair. Cluny’s pacific congregation of tonsured monks, uniform in their black habits, eyes modestly downcast, would have shied away in fear and horror from the savage variety of the band in the cathedral, whose only common feature was their lean, battle-hardened aspect. And from those hard faces stared eyes which would have made any monk quake – eyes which had seen every form of human suffering, and whose owners had borne and perpetrated many of them. As I gazed around at my fellows I wondered if I was similarly marked.
The cathedral was packed, and a great crowd had overspilled in the square outside. Nearest the altar, the princes were arrayed in finery looted from Kerbogha’s camp. Godfrey swaggered in a cloak of heavy gold Damascene silk. Bohemond towered beside him in a scarlet cape embroidered with gold thread. By Godfrey’s generosity, I was decked out in a mantle of deep purple whose unaccustomed splendour made me self-conscious. The congregation’s bright colours were spotted here and there by the plain black, brown or white of the clerics in the nave. Part of me wished that I could once more make myself one of them.
Bishop Adhemar, who led the service, was clothed as much as prince as priest, in gleaming vestments of white and gold, a mitre tall on his head. Instead of his bishop’s crook, he bore the Holy Lance, now fastened to a fine shaft of white wood. The earth before the altar showed the refilled scars of the trench dug to reveal the sacred relic. I tried to fill my mind with gratitude to God for sending this great victory. But as the Te Deums and the prayers echoed under the barrel-vaulted roof, I could not suppress a feeling of guilty cynicism. I was unable to drive from my head the irony that this holy victory was founded on fraud and falsehood. Was it just in my imagination that Bishop Adhemar looked uneasy holding the lance and relieved when he passed it on to one of the other priests officiating at the ceremony?
Looking sideways, I could discern no such doubts in the features of Godfrey and Bohemond. Each had filled his face with martial satisfaction. And the rest of the congregation, with no reason to believe that the lance was anything other than it was meant to be, raptly gazed at it and at the altar in bovine devotion. They genuinely believed that God had brought them this miraculous victory because of the justice of their cause. Bishop Adhemar raised the host and then the chalice, intoning, “Hoc est enim Corpus Meum – This is My Body” and then “Hic est enim Calix Sanguinis Mei –This is the Chalice of My Blood.” On their knees the fierce congregation lowered in reverence the heads that the Moslem hordes had been unable to bow. I bowed my head too, and a feeling of shame, sadness and uncertainty chased away my last vestiges of pride. Surely God would punish me for what I had done? I gazed up in confusion at the great fresco of Our Lord Jesus Christ behind the altar, which some said had been miraculously protected from desecration by the Turks during their long occupation of Antioch. The first infidel who climbed up to deface it had fallen to his death
and then none had dared to follow. No miracle, I thought to myself, just a coincidence, fortunate or unfortunate depending on your perspective. In future I would leave such superstitious conjectures to others.
In this disturbed state, I itched for the service of thanksgiving to be over so that I could climb the hill at long last up to the Cave Church. At last the echo of the final chant rang around the arched roof and died. I filed out with the crowd. I turned to Godfrey and said that I now planned to fulfil my vow to breathe a private prayer of gratitude in the location I had promised. Godfrey smiled at my piety.
“What a holy monk you still are, Hugh, to climb that rough shaley hill in this heat. I suppose you will be doing it pilgrim style in bare feet and hair shirt!”
Uncomfortable in my hypocrisy, I still managed a smile of my own in reply.
“No, my Lord, I will ride up there like the true knight that I now am!”
And so I pressed my horse, reluctant in the midday heat, up the same track I had ridden with my troop of false saints on the previous day. From time to time I found myself glancing uneasily up from the rocky path at the stone-veiled face of the Charonian, brooding with menace above me. At length my way turned off uphill, too steep to ride. I had to leave my horse tethered gratefully in the small pool of shade spread by a boulder. On foot I scrambled up in the direction of the statue of the Stygian boatman. My nerves jangled like the stones I dislodged in my anxious clamber up the hill. Where was the church? I could see no building, no holy structure at all.
