The Field of Blood: The Battle for Aleppo and the Remaking of the Medieval Middle East

by Nicholas Morton

  The final chapter places this contest against the wider backdrop of the history of the Crusader States. The struggle for Aleppo was the moment when the Franks came closest to conquering one of their enemies’ major centers of power, but in the following years the conflict would continue and later Frankish rulers launched their own unsuccessful campaigns to seize the other major Near Eastern capitals of Damascus and Cairo. This section deals with these later ventures, in which the Franks attempted to resume an aggressive policy and drive inland, and will suggest an answer for the much broader question of why the Crusader States ultimately failed in their war aims to conquer the entire Near Eastern region.

  The Battle of the Field of Blood and the broader struggle for Aleppo was an intensely complex affair, drawing in many factions—Frankish, Turkish, Armenian, Arab, and Byzantine. Like so many of the Crusader States’ wars, it was rarely a simple matter of Christians versus Muslims. It is a common misconception that the Crusades were a straightforward duel between two combatant religions. The sources underpinning this book offer a rather different—and much more sophisticated—picture.

  In the story of Baldwin’s epic combat against the dragon Sathanas, the Turks led by Corbaran may have been his captors, but they were also valued friends who marched to his aid when he needed help. The world of the medieval Near East was every bit as complex as this tale implies, and Frankish Christians often found themselves fighting as allies alongside different ethnic or religious groups. Friendships and alliances formed across cultural and spiritual divides, and coreligionists often went to war against one another. As we shall see, the world of the Crusader States defies easy categorization, and the battle lines were rarely simple.

  Drawing out the diversity of the medieval Near East, this book will go beyond the interests of the Franks to consider the perspectives of other protagonists involved in the Field of Blood and the struggle for Aleppo. Among these, it was the Turks who were both the crusaders’ greatest adversaries and the dominant force across the region. Like the Franks, they too were conquerors, newly arrived in the Near East. During the century preceding the Crusades, the nomadic Turks had departed from their homelands in the central Asian steppe region and had migrated south in vast numbers. They broke upon the Muslim world, conquering much of the Islamic caliphate and overthrowing those who stood in their path. In 1055 they took control of Baghdad, and later they moved west into Syria and the Jazira, displacing the Arab and Kurdish rulers who governed the major cities.

  Soon afterward, the Turks invaded Anatolia (modern-day Turkey), staging a series of assaults on the great Christian empire of Byzantium. The Byzantine Greeks labored for decades to protect themselves against these attackers, but they steadily lost ground. Their most famous defeat was at the Battle of Manzikert in 1071, when the Turkish sultan Alp Arslan decisively defeated a major Byzantine field army, fragmenting the empire’s defenses and paving the way for Turkish tribes to move permanently into the area. These defeats prompted the Byzantines to send emissaries to the papacy in Rome, requesting aid against this powerful foe, and these appeals helped lay the foundations, in time, for the First Crusade.

  When the crusaders began their crossing of Anatolia in 1097—en route to distant Jerusalem—they were entering territory that had been under Turkish control for only a few decades. The Turks were determined to confront this new Frankish menace, and they became the crusaders’ primary opponent during their long march. Still, the Turks’ struggle against the First Crusade was complicated by the deep divisions within their own ranks. The First Crusaders arrived to find the Turks in the midst of a civil war that prevented them from unifying their efforts against the oncoming crusaders—some Turks even sought the crusaders’ protection. The Turks and the Franks were the leading pugilists in the Near East, and they would continue to spar for control of the region during the years following the crusader conquest of Jerusalem.

  The Turks may have dominated much of the Near East during this period, but they were minority rulers, governing a broad and diverse population of Arabs, Armenians, Syrian Christians, Kurds, and many other minorities, who often resented their Turkish masters. The victories of the First Crusade weakened the Turks’ control over these peoples, encouraging many to resist their overlords. These peoples all played their parts in the events surrounding both the Battle of the Field of Blood and the broader struggle for Aleppo. They rarely felt much love for the conquerors dividing up the region, whether Frankish or Turkish, but were guided, rather, by the desire to plot a safe course through the unfolding chaos. This was a complex world, molded by many agendas. Some fought for God, others for wealth or power, but many fought simply for survival.

  Chapter 1 will lay the foundations for the Battle of the Field of Blood and the war for Aleppo, going back to the days of the First Crusade and its immediate aftermath and exploring how the Franks first established themselves on the shores of the Levant.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE RIVAL ARCHITECTS OF THE CRUSADER STATES: BALDWIN OF BOULOGNE AND TANCRED OF HAUTEVILLE

  1100–1110

  THE FIRST CRUSADE was over. Jerusalem had been recaptured for Christ, and most of the victorious crusaders had returned to Europe. Against all odds, their hopes had been fulfilled. But for the handful of knights who remained to defend the lands conquered during the crusade, the battle had only just begun. Transforming their temporary conquests into viable states would be an undertaking every bit as challenging as the crusade itself.

  Amid the lush ravines and steep-sided valleys of the Phoenician coastlands (Lebanon), Baldwin of Boulogne was outnumbered and far from help. His enemies had massed around him, and in the still-warm Levantine twilight their campfires glimmered across the hillsides. He had walked straight into a trap, but he had done so knowingly because a great prize awaited him to the south: Jerusalem.

  His brother Godfrey—the holy city’s former ruler—was dead, and Jerusalem was Baldwin’s for the taking, an opportunity that warranted the extraordinary risks he was running. Only a short while earlier, a delegation had arrived at Edessa, the newly formed county where Baldwin ruled, offering him the city. The envoys were clearly in earnest, but he was not the only contender. Others, including the recently elected Patriarch Daimbert, the most senior churchman in the holy city, and Tancred of Hauteville, a powerful Norman warrior and lord of the newly won city of Tiberias, had other candidates in mind. Tancred also had not forgiven Baldwin for their quarrels during the recent crusade. Still worse, winter was near, and the roads would soon be treacherous.

  Spurred on by these thoughts, Baldwin left Edessa in haste. However, as his journey progressed, his fears that there might be another claimant receded; his main rival, Bohemond of Antioch, was now languishing in a Turkish dungeon. Indeed, when he reached the Principality of Antioch, he felt sufficiently confident to send the women and baggage ahead of him by sea, proceeding himself by land with his main force.

  Baldwin’s intended route was to travel from the Frankish-ruled city of Antioch, following the coast road hundreds of miles south to Jaffa—currently the only port controlled by the Franks in Jerusalem—and from there to take the pilgrim paths inland to Jerusalem itself (see here). It was a long and arduous road traversing rugged country, most of it still under Arab or Turkish control. There was a very real danger that his small force would be intercepted. Still, he had traveled on pilgrimage to Jerusalem only a few months earlier and had returned safely, so there was no particular reason to believe that this time would be any different. Most of the local Turkish and Arab rulers were far too frightened of provoking a Frankish attack to bar his passage.

  Any hope of a peaceful journey was shattered at the Byzantine-held port of Latakia. News arrived that Baldwin’s Turkish enemies were readying to bar his path. Duqaq, ruler of Damascus and grandson of the great Turkish sultan Alp Arslan, was assembling an army to waylay Baldwin’s tiny force. This report caused such fear among Baldwin’s entourage that many fled ignominiously. Others pretended to be
ill. Once the backsliders had departed, Baldwin was left with a mere 160 knights and 500 infantry. By the time Baldwin’s company reached Tripoli, a grave situation had worsened. The city’s Arab ruler was keen to win favor with the Franks, and he informed Baldwin that Janah al-Dawla, Turkish ruler of the town of Homs, had joined his forces with those of Damascus. The combined forces were now advancing to block his path.1

  Baldwin may have been atrociously outnumbered, but to retreat now would be a disgrace. He pressed ahead despite the gathering storm clouds of war. From Tripoli he continued on the southward road into Phoenicia, a narrow strip of land between the Lebanese mountains and the sea. This was a place of immense beauty, where deep, heavily vegetated valleys, fragrant with the scent of herbs and alive with the sound of birds, ran down from the high cedar forests on the mountains’ slopes to the glistening sapphire of the Mediterranean. It was in this Eden, however, that Baldwin’s enemies were awaiting him, massing their forces in a place where the road narrowed: Dog River, a few miles to the north of Beirut. This was the point of highest vulnerability on Baldwin’s route. It was a place where even a handful of defenders could deny entry to an army. As Baldwin approached, his scouts reported that the road was blocked by enemy troops only a little way ahead. Battle was unavoidable.

  Baldwin’s first move was to launch an attack to probe his enemies’ defenses. It was a complete failure. His casualties from this encounter were slight, but after a day of hard fighting, he had made no progress and was forced to make camp.

  And so there he was, trapped, on the night before battle, aspiring for Jerusalem but hovering on the brink of disaster. The Turks occupied the high ground to the east, and enemy ships had disgorged more troops to the north, cutting off the road back to distant Antioch. Baldwin was blockaded in a small space without water. His men were getting thirsty and, more important, so were the horses. During the night, the Turks maintained a constant barrage of arrows into his sorry encampment. Sleep was impossible, and his chaplain Fulcher of Chartres spent the hours of darkness sitting outside his tent longing to return home to distant France.2

  Baldwin’s forces were caught between the hammer and the anvil, yet their master was far from defeated. Here was a man who had carried his sword all the way from northern France. He had fought alongside the warriors of the First Crusade in countless battles, winning on almost every occasion. The four years of war that had passed since he left his home had hardened him, giving him a veteran’s eye for strategic advantage. He had become familiar with the Turks’ weapons and tactics. He knew, for example, that their bows, formed from lengths of bone and horn, were bound together with glue. They were exceptionally powerful, but the glue tended to dissolve in the rain, rendering them useless. That knowledge had been decisive only a few months earlier when his knights had ripped through a Turkish raiding party near the ancient Roman city of Baalbek.3

  On this occasion, he decided to turn the Turks’ most effective tactic against them. At first light, Baldwin’s troops dismantled their tents and began to force a passage back toward Tripoli, to all appearances trying to flee. He abandoned the narrows of the ravine and managed to reach an area of more level ground some way to the rear. His enemies, scenting imminent victory, clustered around Baldwin’s small force, shouting war cries and firing arrows, while more sailors disembarked from the ships lying just offshore. In their excitement, the Turks left the high ground and began to assemble on flatter terrain. This was exactly what Baldwin wanted. Suddenly, he turned and charged.

  Christendom’s tactics during this period were founded on one main advantage: the heavy-cavalry charge. Trained knights, armored in chain mail and mounted on big, exquisitely reared warhorses, were battle winners. They operated as shock troops, and the impact of the Christian charge could bulldoze enemy formations apart; if they could catch their enemy on open ground, they were almost unbeatable. It was precisely these tactics that had secured so many of the astonishing victories won during the First Crusade. On one occasion a group of only seven hundred Christian knights had defeated an enemy force of twelve thousand Turkish warriors; such was the power of their charge.4 The trick was to convince an enemy to deploy their forces on flat ground suitable for such a maneuver, and this is exactly what Baldwin had achieved.

  Although Baldwin was employing the same kind of attack that his peers had used during the crusade, his assault had an innovative edge. His Turkish opponents were masters of the ambush and the hit-and-run attack. Theirs was a fluid approach to war; they swooped on their enemies like a flock of birds (one chronicler compared them to a “flight of swallows”)5 and retreated just as quickly. Here, however, Baldwin was using those same tactics himself, pretending to flee before turning and unleashing an overpowering attack. The result was an astonishing victory. Despite the huge imbalance in numbers, Baldwin’s warriors swept the plain clear of enemy forces before they could respond.6

  It was an astonishing reversal of fortune and, for his enemies, a wholly unexpected defeat. The survivors from the Turkish army departed almost immediately, and the following day Baldwin returned to Dog River to find the road clear. A couple of weeks later, his battered force entered Jerusalem to a rapturous welcome. On Christmas Day 1100, Baldwin of Boulogne was solemnly crowned Baldwin I, king of Jerusalem.

  Baldwin’s embattled journey to Jerusalem would soon seem like little more than a scuffle. As the newly appointed ruler of a state that had been in existence for less than two years, he would confront many far more serious challenges immediately after his arrival. Baldwin’s kingdom was a shambles, and his hold as ruler was far from certain. The “kingdom” consisted merely of a motley handful of secondary towns that had been conquered in the final phases of the First Crusade and its immediate aftermath. Jerusalem itself was spiritually precious but economically poor. It controlled no major trade route. It was located in craggy hill country, far from the prosperous farmlands of the coastal plain. It had no mines, and water was scarce. Outside the walls was bandit country, and travelers were often assaulted as they braved the winding roads from the Franks’ sole port at Jaffa.

  To make matters worse, his army was tiny. To a pragmatic eye, his forces were insufficient even to fend off the attacks of Jerusalem’s neighbors, much less to expand the kingdom’s borders. His small territory was confronted by powerful enemies on all sides, most importantly the Turkish cities of Damascus and Aleppo and the Shia Muslim caliphate of Egypt, ruled by the Fatimid dynasty, each of which could deploy large field armies. In addition, Tancred of Hauteville, one of his chief noblemen, refused to acknowledge Baldwin’s rule.

  Baldwin’s survival, like that of his kingdom, was far from certain, but his predicament was common to all the newly founded Crusader States. Baldwin’s former charge, the County of Edessa to the north in the hills of Anatolia, and the Principality of Antioch in northern Syria—Christian territories founded during the First Crusade—both confronted similar problems: scarce resources, powerful enemies, and limited manpower. Yet their rulers were determined both to survive and to thrive, securing the precious gains made during the First Crusade.

  The First Crusade itself began in 1095, at Clermont in France, where Pope Urban II gave a sermon that set this colossal expedition into motion. In his address, Urban berated the knights of France for their avarice, their pride, and their incessant infighting, demanding in restitution for their sins that they wield their swords in God’s name. He challenged them to march east and to offer their support to the Byzantine emperor Alexius I Comnenus by defending his crumbling frontiers in eastern Anatolia. More important, he planted a further ambition that had taken root in many hearts: the reconquest of Jerusalem. In return for their service, participating knights were offered a general indulgence (specifically, a cancellation of penance for all confessed sins)—a mighty reward.7

  The response was enormous. In the wake of the council, and as Urban toured France preaching this message, tens of thousands of warriors joined the campaign. At this early stage, fe
w of those who had sewn crosses onto their clothes had known much either about the enemy they would face or about the lands for which they were headed. Some said they were marching against Saracens (broadly meaning Muslims); most thought they would be fighting pagans (a generic term for non-Christians). It was only when the campaign was well advanced that the name “Turks” became familiar within their ranks.8

  As recruitment for the campaign gathered pace, hysteria swept across many parts of Christendom. It manifested itself in different ways. In some places, Jews were massacred by mobs (in defiance of church law). In others, people saw strange signs and omens. Armed and unarmed pilgrims took the long roads to the East in the thousands.

  In 1096 a mighty horde assembled outside the Byzantine capital, Constantinople, led by the enigmatic preacher Peter the Hermit. But Peter’s horde was hardly the disciplined contingent of knights the Byzantines had anticipated. The warriors of the “People’s Crusade” were unruly and caused continual trouble during their crossing of Byzantine territory. In practice, Emperor Alexius was appalled at their arrival and swiftly shunted them over the Bosporus (the narrow sea-lane between Constantinople and Anatolia). After that, it was only months before Peter’s ragtag force was torn apart by the Turks at the Battle of Civetot.

  After this early failure, the fields outside Constantinople once again began to fill with crusaders, but these were men of a rather different stamp. They were, in large part, contingents of trained troops led by senior noblemen. There were no major kings among them, but their ranks included many illustrious names: Count Stephen of Blois (husband to William the Conqueror’s daughter Adela), Bohemond of Taranto (son of the famous Norman conqueror Robert Guiscard), and Tancred of Hauteville (Bohemond’s nephew). There was also Duke Godfrey of Bouillon, Count Raymond of Toulouse, Count Hugh of Vermandois, and of course Baldwin of Boulogne, future king of Jerusalem. These rulers and their entourages bore a closer resemblance to the experienced troops desired by Emperor Alexius, yet there were so many of them that the emperor feared they might chance an attack on Constantinople itself.