Prince of Legend c-3

by Jack Ludlow

  How then, when Byzantium ruled in the birthplace of Christ as well as the mighty city of Antioch, the site of St Peter’s first church, could the Bishop of Rome lay claim to be the universal head of the faith? How then, with Byzantium in such a powerful position and entrenched, could His Holiness hope to persuade the Orthodox Church to heal the divisions of the forty-year schism?

  When it came to the unity of the faith, a matter of vital concern to Rome and the future of the Christian mission, who was the true enemy, Byzantium or Islam?

  ‘I know a great deal of your grandsire’s family, Tancred,’ Robert of Normandy said. ‘They were much talked about when I was growing to manhood, he most of all.’

  ‘Not with much affection, I suppose.’

  That was a remark that made both men smile, though it did not last long with the Duke. The de Hautevilles — if successful, they were at least distant — were typical of his own subjects, men whose loyalty was to their own success and well-being, not that of their liege lord. Norman knights were able to shift allegiances with an alacrity that made the task of ruling Normandy, indeed anywhere the heirs of the Vikings had planted their feet, near impossible, as the Guiscard too had found to his cost.

  His own father, William, had taken years between his succession at seven years of age and the great Battle of Val-es-Dunes to exert control over his subjects and in that he had required the support of the King of France, his titular suzerain, who did not supply such aid to the nineteen-year-old Duke William without extracting a territorial price, one redeemed when the young man, a decade older and finally secure in his domains, turned on his one-time ally and defeated him in battle.

  Robert himself, succeeding to Normandy on the death of William, now called the Conqueror, had been forced to fight his brother, who ruled England, to maintain the title bequeathed to him; in that contest the ability of his subjects to change sides, and to do so at the drop of a gage, made a successful defence near impossible.

  The two men talked on — Robert had been kind and indulgent to Tancred ever since they had marched in company with Bohemund from Nicaea — each recalling the feats of their forbears. Robert was able to range with pride all the way back to Rollo, the Viking raider who, to keep him and his ferocious raiders quiet, had been given Normandy as a fief. If Tancred’s lineage was, in terms of nobility, a shorter one, their deeds were just as remarkable, so a happy period was passed in talk of Norman success.

  ‘You have accepted the offer made to you by Raymond of Toulouse?’ Tancred said, in what seemed an abrupt change of subject and one that fractured the pleasant mood.

  ‘I have,’ Robert replied, with a look indicating that any enquiry into motive would be unwelcome.

  ‘Who can doubt your faith?’ Tancred responded, neatly sidestepping the issue of Raymond’s silver. ‘For myself …’

  The ploy, leaving any conclusion to his words hanging in the air, was obvious and intended to be. Robert was sharp enough to pick up on what was required.

  ‘You are here to seek my advice?’

  ‘Some would be welcome, My Lord, since I can extract none from my uncle.’

  ‘You have asked?’

  A nod accompanied by a gloomy look. ‘And been told to follow the dictates of my own conscience. Were it anyone but Toulouse I would not hesitate, like you I am all committed to Jerusalem, but …’

  Robert, with his saturnine complexion and dark eyes, gave Tancred a look that seemed to enquire if he was ever going to finish a sentence, yet he declined to be drawn once more and remained silent, forcing the younger man to continue.

  ‘If it were Godfrey de Bouillon seeking my sword arm I would not hesitate, yet if I join with Raymond, Bohemund will surely see it as a betrayal.’

  ‘That is not necessarily the case.’

  There was an air of real artificiality in the way that Tancred brightened then, made more apparent by his eagerness to hear anything encouraging.

  ‘We have just been talking about our ancestors, have we not? Ask yourself, Tancred, what the Guiscard would do in the same circumstance, indeed what your uncle would do if matters were reversed? What is here for you in Antioch but continued service under his shadow? What waits for you if you do as I have done, and you follow the dictates of your crusading vow?’

  ‘Bohemund is fond of saying he cannot see into the future. I am no better than he.’

  When Robert responded, it was with an emphatic tone and a sharp chop of his hand.

  ‘That was a vow taken by Bohemund too, to march on Jerusalem and bring it back to Christianity, yet you and I know he will not progress one step beyond Antioch, for he sees no advantage to himself in doing so. Think like your uncle and that will give you the answer you seek.’

  ‘I have spoken with the men we lead, both lances and the foot soldiers, as you said before that I could.’ That got a gesture from a seated Bohemund, a twitch on the enjoined hands under his chin; it implied such a thing was hardly a secret. ‘Fifty of our lances are set on Jerusalem, nearly all the milities.’

  ‘They are more pious, the milities.’

  ‘And I am determined on Jerusalem myself, but I will go without Raymond’s silver if acceptance of that offends you.’

  ‘Take his money, for not to do so would be foolish,’ Bohemund snapped, but it was not said in anger. ‘But this I advise, trust Raymond in nothing, stay close to Robert of Normandy and even more to Duke Godfrey when he decides to march.’

  ‘For someone who claims not to be a seer you seem to know a great deal of what de Bouillon will do.’

  ‘What he must do, proceed to Jerusalem, but it will not be under the banner of Toulouse.’

  ‘How fractured this effort has become.’

  ‘The miracle is that there was accord for so long. I doubt if even Ademar, had he lived, could have kept it in harmony.’

  ‘If I am to take Raymond’s silver that means I must join him at Rugia.’

  ‘Then do so with my blessing, Tancred.’

  ‘If you are keen to give it now, why has it been so withheld?’

  Bohemund stood and approached his nephew, taking his shoulders in his hands, his smile that of an indulgent parent.

  ‘It is not my place to make such decisions for you, regardless of what feelings I have for you — and those you know, so I will not reprise them. The time has been long in coming when you must strike out on your own, and I esteem you for the considerations you demonstrated in not wishing to do so in the service of a man who is my enemy.’

  ‘It is still an uneasy choice to make.’

  ‘Enough that it is done,’ Bohemund insisted. ‘I know you will fight well when the time comes, as you have done with me and perhaps, when men talk of the fall of Jerusalem, it will be of Tancred they speak, not the Duke of Normandy or the Count of Toulouse.’

  ‘With your permission I will leave on the morrow and I ask for the supplies of food I need to get to Rugia, enough for two days’ march.’

  The benign expression on Bohemund’s face disappeared and his tone matched the look that replaced it. ‘You are in Raymond’s service now. If you want food, ask his men holding the Bridge Gate to provide it for you.’

  With Tancred and his men barely gone, the news that arrived from Ma’arrat shocked even those inured to brutality; as had been observed by Bohemund, the land close to the city had been ravaged by the passing of armies, the good red earth lying fallow till the spring planting. Even with the city in Crusader hands the feeding of the masses that waited there, wondering when the march on Jerusalem would finally take place, imposed a burden on the countryside that could not be met.

  Each time a traveller or messenger arrived in Antioch, they spoke of the increasing dearth of supply in the territory of Jabal as-Summaq, a high plateau, in the grip of winter. Supplies sent from other places, to the Apulians by Bohemund, to the rest by Raymond from Rugia, did not even begin to meet the needs of such a mass of mouths, and with nothing in the fields — even the barely edible roots were gone
— the people there, pilgrims especially, were bordering on starvation.

  The likes of Bishop Peter of Narbonne and his attendant priests lacked for little, churchmen never did, while the soldiers, following the sack and distribution of the spoils, had coin enough to buy from the traders who ventured into the city and set up a market as soon as matters settled. Likewise those pilgrims who, in the plundering of Ma’arrat, had sought valuables rather than food, yet even they were getting hungry in a situation so perilous it was balanced on an edge.

  News came that dearth was rapidly descending into crisis and predictions of an impending catastrophe. The tale arrived at both Antioch and to Raymond at Rugia and told of a riot in which the sparse market had been pillaged by hungry pilgrims, the traders, those who were not killed, being driven off in terror, yet so numerous were the needy that only a few gained enough sustenance to stave off hunger from their depredations.

  It was what followed next that caused many to cross themselves, for with even the limited trade cut off by fear, no food was to be had in Ma’arrat at all and the entire polity, it seemed, had begun to resort to eating the human remains of the Turks so recently slaughtered when the city had fallen.

  The bodies of the infidels had been dragged out of the streets to be dumped in a nearby swamp. Now, after weeks of both water and weather, their rotting cadavers were being dredged out for the softer parts to be cut up then cooked. If it had been only one or two at first, the last reports told of an entire mass of people engaged in the same heinous crime, which had those still at Antioch — there were vessels arriving daily bringing yet more pilgrims from Europe — loud in their lamentations.

  With a quickly gathered oxen train, Raymond rushed food to the city, there, when he followed in person, to be received with less of the acclaim to which he had become so accustomed. The faithful were loud in their condemnation of the lack of crusading progress, and if Bohemund was equally damned he was not present to have it assail his ears. Holding aloft the Holy Lance no longer brought genuflection, more a furious growl and that turned to open dissent when he stated his intention to march only once the walls of Ma’arrat had been rebuilt.

  That such an aim acted as a red rag to the already discontented pilgrims could not be foreseen; to them such an intention spoke of territorial ambition not zeal in the cause of Christ. Led by their angry preachers the lay folk attacked the walls of Ma’arrat intent on tearing them to the ground, for such a place was of no account against their devotion and, if such a task was beyond them, the message was plain to Raymond of Toulouse.

  To regain his place in their hearts, it was he who ordered that the said walls be destroyed, the stones being smashed by hammers then thrown down to fill that dry moat, the news of which flew back to Antioch. That was sent by Tancred who had so recently joined Raymond and found his men required to aid the Provencals in Ma’arrat’s destruction — the remaining Apulians declined to do so, but were happy, on Tancred’s orders, to rejoin Bohemund.

  The day came to depart, and so that their endeavour should be reconsecrated, it was decided that the whole host — clerical, military and pilgrim — in order that there should be no doubt as to their devotion to their Christian God, that no hint of pride should sully their enterprise, must march out of the city walking and barefoot. Raymond, shoeless like the meanest servant, was at the front holding aloft the Holy Lance, alongside Peter of Narbonne, his so recently appointed bishop, who with his priests, intoned prayers seeking the blessing of Christ and the intercession of the saints.

  At the rear came Tancred and his Apulians, no less loud in their devotions but with torches in their hands, these used to set light to every structure they passed, be it the splendid residences of the one-time city merchants, a tradesman’s shop, hovels lived in by the poor, a sty or a stable. The Crusade marched south, vigour renewed, and behind them the city they had just left turned to a smoking inferno which would, very quickly, consume everything that could burn. Ma’arrat an-Numan would be no more.

  From the citadel of Antioch, Bohemund observed the Occitan banners of the Count of Toulouse that still flew from the Governor’s Palace and the Bridge Gate, a sign that whatever else he was willing to surrender it was not these. Yet he was content: they were few and he was many, while their liege lord was marching further and further away.

  Antioch was his to control, though not without concerns: Toulouse had left Albara strongly garrisoned, which meant he still held the strategic key to the plateau of Jabal as-Summaq and the harvest it would produce in the coming year. Then there was the Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, whose intentions were as yet a mystery.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was clear that in his slow march to the south, Raymond of Toulouse was looking in two directions at once, that in which he was headed and the difficulties that lay before him, another over his shoulder to the actions of Godfrey de Bouillon and Robert of Flanders, without whose aid he could not hope to succeed in even marching to and investing Jerusalem — he could discount any help from Bohemund.

  Tancred was not alone in suspecting he was torn, loath to leave behind the territory he had captured and controlled: what he possessed was unlikely to be respected while he was not there to defend it, hence the unhurried progress. That being so, he also had an excuse, which was the parlous fitness of those he led, especially his fighting men, still not recovered from the lack of victuals that had troubled them at Ma’arrat.

  At first they passed through country that had been extensively foraged to sustain that siege, so there was little surplus to fill strained bellies, but there was hope too, for the land that lay ahead and into which he would soon lead his host was extremely fertile and dotted with wealthy cities. It was also, and this was a deep concern, densely populated with Arabs who yielded nothing in the depth of their Islamic faith to the Turk, while the final destination was a place as well defended and formidably walled as Antioch.

  News of what the Count of Toulouse had done previously proved his most telling aid: reports of the massacres at Albara and Ma’arrat sped before him, so that the first obstacle to progress, the city of Shaizar straddling the lower Orontes, sent envoys from the Emir to talk peace long before the Crusaders caught sight of their walls. Along with their supplications came gifts for the expedition leaders, a trio of fine horses, caparisoned in gorgeous harness. To Raymond went vessels of gold, for his senior captains elaborate sweetmeats as well as offers of ample food to eat for the entire host as they made their way through the Emir’s territory.

  The Arab rulers of Shaizar had, it transpired, no love for the Turks and had manoeuvred successfully over decades to stay independent of their control by the payment of a large annual tribute. They had no desire to either fight their battles or to see their city razed to the ground, their lands ravaged and their subjects slain or sold into slavery by fighting an army that had defeated a mighty general like Kerbogha.

  The best way to avoid that was to divert the Turkish tribute to this new power in the land and to make their passage as agreeable as possible, as well as speeding on to the lands of the next satrap. Let others do battle for the Prophet; they would be content to pay the price necessary to avoid conflict.

  ‘All My Emir asks, Great Lord, is that none of those you lead are left free to take more than we are prepared to openly give.’

  Tancred observed the way Raymond’s chest swelled to be so addressed by the Latin-speaking envoy sent from Shaizar, added to the way he looked around the assembly of his captains, his confessors and his fellow peers to ensure it had been noted. That reprised the feelings that had surfaced in his mind over the past week: how different it was to be under the orders of such a man.

  That the Count of Toulouse was excessively proud meant little; that he had been aware of for over a year. Yet previously it had been a distant impression, whereas now it was before him as a constant as well as an irritant, and as a way of behaving it did not stand comparison with his uncle, who if he would not surrender an inch in prid
e to Toulouse, was not a man to allow sycophancy to affect his judgement or even to show that he was moved by it.

  ‘As a ruler himself, My Emir knows that control of such a host is something only a man of true eminence can achieve. Yet he knows you to be that, has heard of your deeds, Count Raymond, which have sped to the four corners of the earth to make mere mortals wonder at them. Mighty Kerbogha fell before your sword, did he not?’

  There was a moment when Raymond was slightly flustered and had a chance to indicate the other men present who had actually fought the Atabeg, though there was no chance he would deny the praise he was receiving for something he was singular in not doing; he could hardly say he had taken to his bed in a fit of pique.

  ‘He’s going to flatter Raymond till he bursts,’ whispered an irritated Normandy.

  Tancred replied by leaning to talk softly into the Duke’s ear. ‘Is there such an amount?’

  Raymond noted the exchange, if not the words they employed, and irritation flashed in his eyes. Toulouse was seated on a chair while they were obliged to stand and observe, this to underline that regardless of rank he was the leader. In his hand, as always, he held the shard of the Holy Lance, to which the eye of the envoy had flicked more than once, for news of that discovery, as well as the power it exerted, had been disseminated throughout the land as quickly as the deeds of the Crusade.

  ‘If all the needs of my people are met, what need have they to disturb the country?’