by Jack Ludlow
After a slow nod, the question was posed, the response an uncomprehending look that to the Norman mind utterly lacked authenticity and Bohemund concentrated on his eyes as he responded, talking directly to the prisoner in Greek.
‘We have a way of questioning in Italy which you will not like. We light a fire and let it burn down to red, glowing coals, then we suspend the man who owes us answers on a spit above it and slowly roast him as we would a pig, with people on hand to keep him turning. First the skin becomes crisp, which is hard enough to bear, but then the juices of the body begin to drip onto the coals to make the heat even greater. The first part to roast to uselessness is that which hangs closest to the coals, so you will be unmanned quickly, though not as swiftly as with a knife.’
Delivered with deliberation, in a voice devoid of emotion, gave what was being said greater weight, that obvious by the growing fear in the Turk’s eyes.
‘Believe me, they will hear your screams in the city, and so loud will they be that they will seek to stop their ears. So at what time will the attack come?’
‘Why does he say that?’ Boutoumites whispered. ‘If we can see them sally out, what difference does it make?’
‘My uncle has discounted that because it does not make sense. Which means he is asking another question entirely.’
‘Tancred,’ Bohemund called over his shoulder in Greek, ‘we have pits already alight?’
‘We do.’
‘You have no time to delay, then, my Turkish friend. Speak now and live, upon my honour, or be carried to a place where you will answer the question, but will it be too late for you to ever be a man again, perhaps too late to ever be anything other than a pariah? What time will the attack come?’
The voice was hoarse, either from fear or a sense of betraying his kind, and the Turk dropped his head to avoid the Norman gaze. ‘At the third hour after dawn.’
‘And where is your Sultan now?’ That brought his head back up, the look in the eyes now one of quizzical surprise. ‘To the east, I suspect, hiding in the hills. You merely have to nod if it is true, you do not have to speak.’
That was a jerk, which had Bohemund request the young fellow be cut loose and taken to his tent, an act which sent up a murmur of disappointment from a gathering that had been looking forward to at least a disembowelling.
‘Let him bathe and find him some clothing,’ he called, as he approached Tancred and Boutoumites. ‘Now we know, Curopalates, why you were thrown out of the city with so little ceremony. Kilij Arslan has come back from fighting the Danishmends to try and save his city.’
‘This he told you?’ Boutoumites asked, not having heard the quiet exchange.
That got a smile. ‘I think it was I who told him, but it matters not.’
‘How did you know?’
‘When the first thought makes no sense, then there must be other motives for the acts of man. We must prepare for an attack and soon; the Sultan cannot stay hidden in the eastern hills without we quickly get word of him, added to which he cannot be well supplied, so I suspect it will come either tomorrow or the day after. Tancred, ride to Raymond, who is on the road and cannot be far off. Urge him to move with speed. With the Provençal forces here we can plan to destroy Kilij Arslan rather than just drive him off.’
Tancred had just begun to move when he heard Boutoumites speak, not to object but merely to observe that Bohemund was making a lot of assumptions, which got him a very sharp rejoinder.
‘I did not get my reputation by sleight of hand, Curopalates. If you doubt that, ask your Emperor. Now I must go and impress upon my peers that we must prepare.’
‘Then you must include Prōstratōr Tacitus. The Emperor has given him command.’
It was tempting to tell this arrogant courtier just what that truly meant, but again there was a need for a level of tact, which, if it did not come naturally, was delivered with gravity. Bohemund spun round to address the Byzantine General with a request to accompany him to the council pavilion, and when Tacitus got there, and the others had assembled, the old Byzantine soldier made no attempt to take a leading position, which proved he knew his true standing if Boutoumites did not.
‘Can we base all we know on the word of one captured fellow sent to scout our dispositions?’
The worry for Bishop Adémar was so great it produced a single crease of skin on his forehead, the question and the expression proving beyond doubt his lack of military expertise. It was explained to him by others, not Bohemund, that it would be madness to wait to find out if what the Turk had revealed was true, since if Kilij Arslan was going to attack, it had to be with a very necessary element of surprise.
The appearance of Tancred at the doorway was a sight to lift the spirits of his uncle, even more so when he informed the council that Raymond of Toulouse was less than half a day’s march away and that he intended to bring his men on even if darkness fell before they made the crusading encampment.
‘Time,’ insisted Godfrey de Bouillon, ‘to make our dispositions.’
Courtesy demanded he wait for a nod from each leader before he continued.
‘Count Bohemund, since you hold the walls to the north I suggest it would be best if you move your men around to the south of the city so that the Provençal forces can deploy in the ground you vacate.’
‘Agreed.’
‘We, the rest, can take station to cut off access to the southern gate, for there will not be space for us to all man a common front.’
That too, being sound sense, got a nod as Vermandois raised his voice. ‘I demand a place of honour.’
‘But Count Hugh,’ Adémar said, in his soft clerical tone. ‘Wherever you are is a place of honour.’
It was testimony to his inanity that he took what was said at face value. Equally it showed a great level of tact that no one else present sniggered, especially the man sent to guide him.
CHAPTER TEN
It required a line of flaring twin torches to get Raymond of Toulouse and his men into place, a movement accomplished with much cursing, jostling and the odd exchanged blow. Not that he was with them; the Provençal leader was in the council tent discussing how the forthcoming battle might be fought, it being likely that the Turks would use the lake to protect one flank of their advance and seek to drive the Normans who were now in that position away from the city walls, so that they could get through to the gates and release the garrison, who would be waiting to sally out to join them.
Leaning over the map on the centre table, Bohemund made a sweeping gesture with his arm, outlining his view of how to counter that threat and not only beat off Kilij Arslan but inflict on him a crushing defeat, which put the majority of foot soldiers on the expected line of attack, with the majority of the lances out to the south in a position to engage once both forces were locked in combat.
‘If you, Raymond and Duke Robert, backed by a good proportion of our milities, hold him on foot, then My Lord of Bouillon and I can use your mounted knights to wheel round and take him in flank.’
Vermandois, after Walo had whispered in his ear, made the point that such forces would be the most exposed.
‘He may attack the position you take up and if you have your lances in the front line they will be at the mercy of the Turkish archers, which the Emperor told Walo and I we must at all costs avoid.’
Robert of Normandy spoke up next. ‘Is it possible he would try to deny us a line of retreat by getting to our rear and cutting us off from the road to Constantinople.’
‘Annihilation would follow,’ Vermandois responded, clearly terrified at the notion. ‘Like the People’s Crusade.’
It was a potent and frightening allusion; every section of the host had marched through a landscape strewn with the bones of those slain under Walter Sansavoir, too many to even contemplate burying them. Even more, those visiting a market set up by Alexius at Civetot had walked on a carpet of the same that littered the landscape all along the shoreline. If there had been any doubt as to their f
ate should they fail, the proof scrunched under their feet; when facing the Turks it came down to victory or death.
‘That carries too much risk,’ insisted de Bouillon, speaking just before Bohemund had a chance to say the same. ‘He cannot split from the garrison or he will be weak in both quarters. He must clear a gate to increase his numbers.’
‘And his aim is to drive us from the walls,’ Bohemund added, ‘in short, to break the siege. The sight of our host retiring, as have the Byzantines before us, would be enough for him to claim victory.’
‘Will he know that I have arrived?’ asked Raymond.
‘With the sun at his back he will see your banners and if he does not know your device he will be aware that our force has seen an increase.’
‘He may know before that,’ said Robert. ‘Which could cause him to alter his plan of attack.’
‘Impossible to tell if he has,’ Bohemund replied. ‘We have seen no sign of any signalling to warn him, but that does not mean there has not been any.’
‘If I may,’ Tancred cut in, carrying on when his uncle nodded. ‘Any signal would have to be prominent enough to carry and be seen three mille passum or more away, so it would be seen and act as an alert to the presence of a receiver. It would tell us someone is out to the east and you, My Lords, would not miss such a sign as there is only one person that can be. He has come in secret and that he sees as his most potent weapon, so we should assume that the arrival of the Provençal host is unknown to Kilij Arslan.’
Raymond responded to Tancred with a nod, only for Baldwin of Boulogne to speak up, he doing so once more without seeking permission from his brother.
‘It would be foolish to base what we do on a guess. I say we stand together on the defensive and let him batter himself on our shields.’
‘That,’ Bohemund growled, for once showing a degree of impatience, ‘will leave him to fight another day. Which means, even if we drive him back, throughout the siege of the city we will be obliged to keep one eye over our shoulder and men deployed to prevent another assault.’
Baldwin and Bohemund exchanged a look that had within it none of the required delicacy for which this council had been formed, in fact it was openly defiant on the part of Baldwin. That was made worse when his elder brother agreed with the Norman and then sought to sweeten that rebuff with the instruction to command the foot soldiers alongside the Provençals. The Duke of Normandy and his lances would stay to the rear as a reserve, able to join the battle at any point where weakness showed and also to act against the possibility the Robert had outlined, an attempt by the Turks to cut the route of retreat.
Put to the vote, it was tied until Raymond agreed to the task he had been offered, not from amity but necessity. Last to arrive he was being given a pivotal role in the battle to come and that clearly tickled his pride, but he was scarce equipped for mounted warfare – having been marching for days his mounts were bound to require rest, which obligated him to a battle on foot. Finally Tacitus was invited, through his Frankish interpreter, to approve, which he did with a silent and enigmatic nod as if he thought it was all nonsense.
‘Then all that remains,’ intoned Bishop Adémar, ‘is for each of you to be shriven and Mass arranged for the entire host.’
‘That must wait,’ Baldwin of Boulogne exclaimed, glaring at his brother, then Bohemund. ‘First I want that ditch before the line My Lord of Toulouse and I are going to defend made deeper.’
Godfrey de Bouillon addressed Bohemund. ‘And our men must take the spoil to fill and make smooth that part across which we are intending to advance.’
Bohemund nodded once he had considered the potential pitfall, namely that such a thing would be obvious. Yet with no high ground to observe the freshly dug earth, the only way Kilij Arslan would know of the changes would be by signal from the city, and he, like Tancred, had serious doubts that such a system existed. Even if it did, to send such a message was bound to be complicated.
Men toiled late into the night under the moon and starlight with spade and pail, digging and moving earth, spreading straw across the top of the filled-in part of the ditch to hide the obvious dampness of freshly dug spoil. Then they saw to their weapons, the grinding wheels spinning continuously to make deadly the heads of swords, axes and knives, as well as the points of the milities’ pikes.
Sunrise found an army on its knees, facing the rising sun as the priests made their way through the ranks dispensing wine as the blood of Christ and a wafer of bread representing his body. Tacitus had brought his own Orthodox divines and they administered to his troops, even though they had been allotted a post of minimum danger, to the very rear of the crusading army. When suggested that he stay out of danger it was done with some trepidation – no one wanted to wound Byzantine pride yet it was accepted with good grace, bordering on alacrity.
Unknown to the Westerners, the Prōstratōr had instructions to keep his force intact, even to the point of abandoning the field if it looked as if these Crusaders would lose a battle. The empire could not bear any losses in men and arms; let these Franks and Normans bleed if that was required, then peace could be made with the victors.
All eyes were looking east to the hills that lined the far end of the Askanian Lake, the peaks plainly visible, before that a plain devoid of even a hint of an enemy, much of it hazily obscured by a wind that allowed the mist from the warming air playing on the cold lake water to drift across the landscape. By the side of each leader sat a glass of sand that had run twice and was now being anxiously watched as the grains slipped through the narrow bottleneck for the third time. To their rear were the sounds of snorting and farting horses, the clinking of metal weapons and a low murmur as the more pious continued to pray.
‘Dust,’ Bohemund said, which had Tancred peering forward at that hazy landscape.
Sure enough the colour of that mist had changed, the lower reaches dun-coloured, and in a few blinks of an eye the first shapes began to form in the cloud of their own making, eventually merging into a mass of horsemen coming on at a slow trot, the dust thickening to their rear as the men on foot jogged along to keep up. The sound of thousands of hooves took an age to materialise but by the time the sandglasses had run their course, the whole Turkish army was in sight, the sun high enough to show the glinting points of their weaponry.
Bohemund was thinking how much he had been required to restrain himself at the previous night’s council. He knew absolutely in his own mind how the battle should be fought and he was now re-examining the points he had declined to add. First, these Turks were facing an army of a kind they had never met, most obviously his Normans; if they had heard of the tactics they might face that was no substitute for the actual experience of shock that was about to come their way.
Then there were the numbers; Kilij Arslan knew just as well as any Byzantine commander the level of force that could be maintained in the field so far from Constantinople, especially in the case of a siege, and he would have assumed his opponents to be of a strength encountered on previous attempts to invest Nicaea. But with a repaired Roman road added to comprehensive supply by sea, the Crusaders were much stronger. Added to that, all parts of the host were accustomed to winning battles – even the dolt Vermandois had enjoyed success alongside his brother the King of France. The Byzantines were more used to losing and that meant the mass of their men, in any battle with the Turks, would have been looking for a route to personal survival as much as they had looked for a way to achieve victory.
Looking to his left he picked up the glint of the Tacitus nose under his cone-shaped Byzantine helmet; if he was not about to be engaged with his men – they were well back – he nevertheless wanted his yellow and black banner to be seen at the centre of the defence, in the position which implied leadership. To the Norman right stood the line of lances under Godfrey of Bouillon, horses pawing the ground, and he reasoned that within a very short time he would know their worth, and that had nothing to do with courage, which he took as a given.
But did they have discipline, which was much more vital in battle, and could Godfrey and his captains control their men once combat was joined? That was the Norman secret – not just the shock of a disciplined charge but close battlefield control, and in years of fighting it had always amazed Bohemund how little his enemies had learnt about a way of making war that went back to the many decades before he was born.
‘Time to take your place, Tancred, and remember, do not act on any other command than mine. Arslan will launch his mounted archers and once he has done so they will be committed and vulnerable, which de Bouillon will see.’
‘He may be tempted to act prematurely?’
‘Yes,’ came the reply, with a wave towards Tacitus, who would do nothing in terms of control, and even if he did, no one would obey him, ‘and with no man in command, who can stop him?’
‘He will surely wait until the Turkish foot are also engaged.’
‘Let us hope he does.’
They could hear the drumbeats now, a constant thud that grew until it was a near constant blow to the ears, intermingled with high-pitched cries and yells, no doubt exhortations to request Allah to smite the Christians who dared invade the lands of the Prophet. Most obvious was the fact that Kilij Arslan was doing exactly what had been predicted, attacking the host at a point where he could rive them from the Nicene walls. These were now lined with the defenders yelling to urge on their fellows, archers probably; those mounted would be waiting behind the south gate under their leader Acip Bey.
A horn blew and the mounted archers immediately broke from a trot into a canter, unhooking their bows of bone and horn to slot in an arrow, coming on in their thousands until the man leading them, distinctive in his decorated helmet, raised himself in his saddle and with a huge wave ordered the gallop, though he was soon obliged to order a wheel by the same method. Baldwin’s deeper ditch was an obstacle that came as a surprise and impeded their progress, which drew from Bohemund a degree of admiration; if he did not much like the man who had proposed that it be done he had to acknowledge his wisdom and credit him with the ability to see ahead.
