by Jack Ludlow
‘I fear,’ Adémar responded, ‘and it gives me no joy to admit it, that you may speak the truth.’
‘Mark it, My Lord Bishop, as no lie, for if it was not so, why is Alexius no threat to Kerbogha?’
The weary-looking cleric cast a glance around the assembly, as if seeking someone to refute what Bohemund had said, but not even Raymond was prepared to challenge a man who knew Byzantium too well. Having waited for what seemed an age, Adémar finally set things in motion again.
‘Do you have a way of proceeding to suggest, Count Bohemund?’ That got a sharp nod. ‘Then perhaps it would be a notion to outline your thinking to all present.’
Which he proceeded to do, and if it was bold as a plan it was also, if it failed, a route to certain annihilation. Many times it had to be restated that such a fate awaited them regardless of how they acted, and after much discussion it was agreed that to die by wasting away was not a fitting death for men of such stature, while those of lesser rank would follow either from the same feeling or because they had enough belief in God or relics like that which Raymond displayed to them.
‘Let them see the Holy Lance before the battle,’ Bohemund suggested, for if he was cynical himself he knew that others were not. ‘And let them kiss it if they so desire.’
Toulouse reacted as if the smelly mob was being invited to plant their lips on him.
‘But let us put my plan in execution and place our faith in our abilities.’
Put to the vote it was agreed, then came the vexed question of who was to lead, that immediately countered by the suggestion from Raymond that they should, as they had in the past, command their own contingents.
‘No!’ Bohemund maintained and not with much tact. ‘Such a battle requires one leader, one general, for a divided command will not serve.’
‘And no doubt, Count Bohemund, you see yourself in that position?’
‘I have a plan, Count Raymond, do you?’
That would have descended into unseemly wrangling if Godfrey de Bouillon had not spoken out forcefully. ‘I will say, without equivocation, that I will not assent to take my men into this battle under anyone else but Count Bohemund!’
‘He saved your life once, Duke Godfrey,’ Toulouse scoffed, ‘do not be so sure he will do so again.’
The reply was stinging and would have seen a sword drawn if it had come from anyone else.
‘I have often wondered if you are capable of being a fool, Count Raymond, now I know it to be so. You are a puissant lord, a famous knight, but do you think the Turks whisper in terror of you in the dark of the night? I know they do not fear my name any more than did Alexius Comnenus. He feared Bohemund de Hauteville, not anyone else of our number and I think our enemies know best of him and his deeds to be likewise affected. It is his banner that will draw their gaze, therefore let the man who has brought us to this conclusion and has at least a plan have the command.’
‘For the very good other reason,’ Robert of Normandy cut in, ‘that amongst us he is by any measure the best and most experienced general.’
‘You would serve under a man who owes you fealty?’
‘Better that than die under one in whom I repose no faith.’
That was like a slap to Toulouse, really the only other contender, and he was angry. Yet he was no fool despite what Godfrey had said and to put it to a vote was to lose. Flanders would go with his brother-in-law of Normandy, which only left Vermandois to back the Provençal case to the leadership, Adémar only having a casting vote if it was required. With a sharp nod and still holding his relic, he left the room.
‘Then,’ Adémar said, ‘it is needful that we say a Mass for our hopes.’
When it came to a choice of where to fight a battle, Bohemund had always been aware he was not gifted with much choice. Without horses he could not attack an enemy camped so far off from Antioch and, as he had said, would not have done so even if he was well supplied with mounts – that left the actual point of contact too open to chance. On foot he dare not stray too far from the security of the city walls, so all that was left was to use those as an anchor.
His aim was to deploy in such a way that would invite Kerbogha to attack him, but just to get what was left of the crusading army out through the Bridge Gate was hard enough and, despite his feelings, that seemed to require a strong body should be left behind to mask the citadel, thus weakening what could be put in the field and that he declined to do. The notion that it be left unguarded alarmed more than the men he led: Toulouse, who scoffed at any suggestion the Count of Taranto put forward, was vocal in his scorn.
‘They could take the city while we are outside!’
‘If we are beaten Kerbogha will take Antioch anyway, Count Raymond, and I am putting my faith in the fact that we will tempt our Atabeg with a morsel he cannot resist.’
Sensing the need to explain further Bohemund stood closer to the table on which lay the map of Antioch and its surroundings.
‘Kerbogha wants to destroy us, wants to say to all of his peers that the men who defeated every army sent against it was brought low by him.’
‘You can see into his mind?’
‘Perhaps,’ the Duke of Normandy interjected, to put Raymond in his place ‘my confrère can see into more than one.’
‘It does no harm,’ Adémar suggested, emollient as ever, ‘to test notions of what might be. Even as a mere cleric I know that.’
Godfrey of Bouillon laughed out loud. ‘If God had many mere clerics like you, My Lord Bishop, then all of Islam would quake and Kerbogha would up sticks and flee back to Mosul.’
If the Bishop of Puy-en-Velay was flattered, he hid it behind a display of becoming modesty, but Godfrey’s sally had spread amusement and done more to lighten the atmosphere than all the priestly soothing, which allowed Bohemund to continue.
‘I suggest we tempt him with that destruction and hope that seeing us outside the walls he will do nothing to require us to withdraw, which an attack from the citadel will most surely require. I am guessing …’
That word got an indrawn breath from Vermandois and Toulouse which Bohemund ignored: what was the point of explaining to men who knew as well as he did that war was a game of chance and this was no different? All any general could do was make a plan and hope that he could maintain his, while throwing his opponents off their own.
‘I believe he will order those in and to the rear of the citadel to do nothing to take the shine off his anticipated glory. Those men are commanded by Shams ad-Daulah even if he fights under Kerbogha’s banner. The last thing our Atabeg will want is possession of the city gifted to him by the son of the last governor.’
‘And if you are mistaken?’ Toulouse demanded.
Bohemund declined to respond directly to that meaningless question and instead spoke to them all.
‘Do I need to remind you of how desperate our situation is, My Lords? We either fight on what terms we can manage or we march out with naked, shrunken bellies and halters round our necks within days, to have our blood turn the Orontes red. I tell you, if we cannot engage as a body of maximum strength, I will march out alone with my Apulians and you can watch the slaughter from the walls and get an early sight of your own fate.’
‘Finish outlining your plan, Count Bohemund,’ Adémar replied, his voice strong and commanding for once. ‘And by my faith let us all attend to it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bohemund’s first act was to seek to seal the city, which was difficult, and to keep his preparations from common discussion, which was even harder. If Kerbogha got wind of his intentions he could easily move to counter them and render any exit from the city impossible. That imposed a time constraint as well: to keep matters covert would not last long. Luckily, all the fighting men had weapons that were ready for use; indeed they expected to employ them every day, so they could be left in ignorance until just before the action.
What they lacked was satisfied bellies, but no more so than the small number of mounts he cou
ld muster, who were near to being skeletal. His first act, tactfully including the council in the decision, was to make a quick distribution of the available food to both, not enough to remedy weeks of shortage, but one massively more than that to which they had been recently accustomed, which acted upon their spirits as well as their stomachs.
Ever since the departure of William of Grandmesnil and his deserting knights, the walls had been more carefully patrolled as a matter of course, with a system of token checks, on the old Roman model, by section leaders, they visiting each sentry at irregular intervals to ensure those guarding them were both awake and alert, while a captain made flying visits and kept everyone on their toes.
They had added instructions to alert the Turks to any flight by an individual. As a sanction that was made effective by the way the enemy reacted, waiting till daylight and allowing those still inside to watch the skin being stripped off the screaming victims they had intercepted, for, despite every precaution, some still tried.
Every fellow magnate was allotted a role, and despite his earlier demand for sole control it was clear to the Count of Taranto that men would fight better for their liege lord than any other commander; all he asked was that his peers stick to his initial plan and act positively to any instructions he subsequently issued.
It was just as important that the men leading individual companies were made aware of what was required and they were gathered the evening before the plan was to be executed to be made privy to the outline. Looking at them in guttering candlelight Bohemund could see in their eyes what was in every heart including his own: this as an enterprise was likely to be terminal.
If Vermandois was a military ignoramus he was a fiery one, always seeking to initiate a wild charge even when circumstances demanded caution, convinced that in times to come chroniclers of bravery and knightly good conduct would sing of his sterling deeds. One of the attributes of good generalship is the ability to use those gifts possessed by any man you command, even if they are limited. Thus Count Hugh was given the task of driving the Turks away from the Bridge Gate to allow the rest of the crusading host to deploy, for he had the recklessness such a mission required.
Given all of the horses as well as every single man who could use a bow, either mounted or on foot, Bohemund had them crowd behind the barred gate in darkness and in silence so as not to alert the citadel. Behind this body of men the streets and squares were filling up with all the other fighting contingents, every one on foot, all silent and commending their souls to heaven, while the pilgrims prayed for them in the churches and the local Armenians hid and trembled in their cellars.
Somehow Vermandois had got hold of a sleek white horse, albeit also with prominent ribs – he had probably sold the last of his plate to acquire such a beast – and he had upon his surcoat not the Crusader cross but the multi fleur-de-lis device of Clovis, founder of the French Kingdom and his claimed ancestor. His eyes at the final conference, before he donned his helmet, had shone with the prospect of the glory he was sure he was bound to achieve.
Bohemund, who would give the order to attack, looking at him by the light of a single torch in the deep doorway of the palace of the Patriarch of Antioch, wondered if, in his quest for that laurel, he might lead his contingent to an ignominious death. The temptation to speak, to ask Count Hugh to calm himself, was put aside for it would have been pointless; all he could do was follow him to the head of his troops.
The first daylight to touch anything visible lit the huge green flag that flew high above the citadel, hanging limp in the calm of a windless morning. That would begin to lightly flutter as the sun rose over the mountains to the east, its heat stirring the first breeze of the day, while down below it was still in shadow and that was where advantage lay. There would be enough time to commence an attack and enough light, Bohemund had calculated, to press it home before the citadel could sound a trumpet to alert those camped close to the city walls.
Several large Apulian Normans leant their back against the huge wooden gate as the great baulk of timber that barred it was quietly lifted off its cleats. Others stood to each side holding ropes that had been attached to the timbers so that when the two halves were opened it would happen at a speed that would allow for an immediate charge by the horsemen.
Surprise was essential, the timing acute and both had been carefully calculated to gain them the maximum advantage. The Turkish encampments would have just bestirred and they would be deploying for dawn themselves, always the time to protect against sudden attack. Yet light was essential too: Vermandois and his men had to see their targets and the enemy had to observe what was approaching and the speed at which it was closing to be induced, the man in command hoped, to panic.
Bohemund watched as the sun turned the sky from silver to a hint of burnished gold, throwing the shadow of the citadel itself over the higher part of the city. There were two cohorts of Provençal knights up there holding the drystone wall, a couple of hundred men, all that could be spared to mask the fortress – and they should have been led by their liege lord.
Raymond, either through a recurrence of genuine illness or pique, had taken once more to his cot and left one of his vassals to command his men, which was poor behaviour, especially since Bishop Adémar, not in full vigour himself, had decided he too must lead a contingent and fight.
‘May God commend your efforts, Count Hugh,’ Bohemund said quietly, before issuing a louder command that had the gates swung open.
Vermandois let out a piercing yell and spurred his horse as soon as a gap appeared, those behind doing likewise, and the mounted men streamed through the gate to clatter over the arched stone of the bridge, quickly followed by the foot-bound archers. The Turks had a small piquet on the far side, which was ridden over in seconds, and the advance party was out on the open plain to the west of the river, firing arrows at men only halfway through their dawn deployment.
That they were so engaged worked in the Crusaders’ favour, for being loosely bunched they became easier targets for arrows fired by foot-bound knights, many of whom lacked full competence in the use of a bow and arrow. Fortunately the enemy was short on the discipline that comes from being properly formed, so the archers’ inexperience was not exposed.
Just as effective were Vermandois and his mounted fighters, who having emptied their quills proceeded to ride into the enemy ranks with their swords doing great damage, if not by killing, in forcing into flight any body of Muslims that sought to form a defence, they hampered by the fact that much of the forces deployed before the walls could not come to their aid.
It was no mystery to any of the Crusade leaders that Kerbogha’s men suffered from the same constraints that had troubled them during their siege: the deep River Orontes forced those seeking to invest the walls into a dispersed separation in which mutual support was slow to gather, and Bohemund had built this factor into his plan. He needed time to get his entire force deployed and they would have to fight to achieve the position he knew was a minimum, an unbroken line that arced with its back to the Bridge Gate so it could not be outflanked from the north.
Yet it was not a simple affair: to get fifteen thousand men out of one gate was bound to cause crowding and confusion and it was thankful that Vermandois had the sense to split his force, driving the greater part of the Muslim force back toward Kerbogha’s main encampment while allowing the rest to flee south, the smaller body now cut off from a quick retreat and any support by the river. Not that Vermandois could hold, he lacked the numbers, and it was only the arrival of the leading ranks of his northern French knights on foot that gave a tenuous stability to his line.
Men were streaming untidily out and over the arch of the stone bridge, their captains using the flat of their sword blades to try to get them into some form of order. Above their heads the walls were lined with priests in deep prayer, calling to God for aid, while higher still, not in full daylight, a huge black flag with no device flew from the citadel tower, obviously a sign to Kerbogha t
hat the Crusaders had set in motion an attack: to those of a superstitious bent it was of a shade that spoke of imminent death.
Bohemund got out on the Antioch plain on the heels of Vermandois to set up a command post on the small mount that had once housed the siege fort of La Mahomerie. His banner was soon aloft at his back and his eyes straining north to see how quickly Kerbogha would come, worrying that he would do so before he could get what was at present a rabble into place.
The plan was, at this moment, in the balance without that should happen, for the close besiegers, still all Turks by their dress, having been swept from their prepared positions had not panicked and fled but had begun to regroup. They were showing a stiffening resistance which, given their numbers, would soon turn into a dangerous attack difficult to contain.
The northern French were fully engaged and now it was the Lotharingians debouching through the gate, led by an ebullient Godfrey de Bouillon, who went by Bohemund with a cry that ‘By God it was good to see grass again, even if it stinks of Turkish shit’, before turning to berate his men to make haste.
Half a glass of sand must have gone by before the next contingent, the two Roberts of Normandy and Flanders, began to lead out their warriors, followed by Bishop Adémar at the head of the remaining Provençals, in full chain mail and under his blue banner with the device of the Virgin Mary, each party going to the right of those who had preceded it to form a continuous line.
Last out were the Apulians, led by Tancred, who had been held back just in case an attack developed from the citadel and overwhelmed the men set to prevent them interfering in the battle. That would have led to fighting in the streets of the lower town, for the Apulians could not have got up to save the Provençals from annihilation, but better that than those outside should find their own gates closed against them. Tancred’s men gathered around Bohemund’s banner to act as a reserve that could be rushed to plug any gap in the defence.
