In Distant Lands

by Lars Brownworth

  Bohemond, who had done so much to aid the Christian cause, now did nearly as much to damage it. First he convinced the Count of Edessa to join him in a rash attack against a neighboring emir. Their joint army was slaughtered, and his colleague was captured, leaving both Antioch and Edessa dangerously weakened. Instead of trying to repair the damage, however, Bohemond simply abandoned Antioch. Leaving his nephew Tancred as regent, he returned to Europe to recruit a new crusading army.

  To his delight, he discovered that he was a celebrity. Tales of the crusade – and his exploits in particular – were already crossing over into legend, and he was whisked from one European court to another. In Italy, crowds massed to greet him wherever he stayed, and when he entered France, King Philip offered his daughter in marriage. His popularity was such that the English king, Henry I, refused to let him set foot in England for fear that too many of the English nobles would join him.

  This was no idle concern. Bohemond had always been a magnetic figure, and now that his charisma was burnished with a glistening reputation, he found a ready audience for his message. He had intended to get help for Antioch, but the flood of recruits convinced him to try for something a bit more daring. His defeat against Aleppo had made it clear that his dream of a powerful kingdom wasn't going to happen from Antioch. If he couldn't create a great eastern state, then he would just have to take control of an existing one – Byzantium.

  It wasn't hard to make the case. In the many tellings and retellings of his adventures, the role of villain had slowly switched from the Muslim occupants of the Holy Land to the Byzantines. A hero of Bohemond's status needed a suitable antagonist and the dastardly Alexius, who had left the noble crusaders to die at Antioch, neatly fit the bill. Heretics are always easier to hate than infidels, and the empire made a convenient scapegoat for every misfortune, past and present.

  In just three years he raised an army a staggering thirty-five thousand strong, nearly the size of the entire First Crusade. Abandoning any pretense of helping the crusader states, Bohemond crossed to the Dalmatian coast and attacked Durrës in present-day Albania, the westernmost city of the Eastern Roman empire.

  For all his boldness, however, Bohemond had never really been able to match wits with Alexius. The emperor had never trusted the crusaders, believing that their greed made it inevitable that they would turn on Constantinople. The fact that it was Bohemond who had finally unmasked this truth was hardly surprising. In any case, Alexius had been planning for this moment for some time. As the Norman army marched up the coast, he made no attempt to stop them. Instead, he bribed the Venetian navy to attack Bohemond's fleet, stranding the crusaders in hostile territory. He then carefully avoided a pitched battle, waiting for the difficulties of finding provisions coupled with the usual unsanitary conditions of army life to soften them up.

  The ploy worked perfectly. Within a few months, plague and sinking morale forced Bohemond to conclude a humiliating truce that undid all of his life's work. He was left in possession of Antioch, but only as a neutered vassal of the emperor. The most important offices in the city would be hand picked by Constantinople, and Bohemond would have to publicly swear fealty to Alexius. During the ceremony of homage he would formally hand over all territory that he had conquered in the east to the emperor and vow to serve him loyally.

  After a lifetime of struggle that had seen him rise from illegitimate, landless son to the toast of Western Europe, this final failure was too galling to take. Antioch had been the scene of his greatest triumph, and he had no stomach to face it in defeat. He sailed for Sicily instead, dying a broken shell of himself three years later without ever returning to the east.

  The Struggle for Control

  Bohemond exemplified the unreliability of the great crusader barons. With all of his skill and resourcefulness he had actually weakened the Christian position in the east. Those who were less talented shared his stubborn independence and were equally useless to King Baldwin. Raymond of Toulouse, the still powerful but homeless holdover from the original crusade, spent his time trying to conquer Tripoli,77 the port that controlled a strip of the Palestinian coast between the kingdom of Jerusalem and the northern crusader states, a port vital to the security of Outremer.

  Tripoli had avoided conquest during the First Crusade because of its fortifications and the deftness of its emir who resupplied the crusaders and turned a blind eye toward the plundering of his lands. Now that the kingdom of Jerusalem was established, however, it was no longer possible for the crusaders to ignore the disruptive threat of Tripoli.

  The difficulties of the First Crusade hadn't sapped Raymond of his prodigious energy. As his soldiers invested the walls, he started work on a huge castle that he intended to both cut off access to the city and protect his future capital. Confidence – despite his past record – was not wanting. Already at the start of the siege he was styling himself 'Count of Tripoli'.

  For all his wariness of Raymond's motives – the creation of yet another uncontrollable noble to undercut his authority – King Baldwin did his best to support the venture. The security of Jerusalem was too important to be compromised by personal misgivings. Fortunately for the king, the bad luck that had followed Raymond for his entire time in the east, continued to plague him. A sortie by the defenders of Tripoli managed to set fire to a section of Raymond's castle and he was badly injured when a part of the burning roof collapsed on him. Six months later he was dead.

  The departure from the stage of the incompetent, if gallant, Raymond turned out to be a great gain for Baldwin. The king took command of the siege in person, and on July 12, 1109 captured the city and founded the County of Tripoli, the last of the crusader states.

  The entire episode emphasized his authority and royal power. Not only had he successfully concluded the war – and immeasurably strengthened the crusader presence in the east – but he had also made sure that Tripoli was controlled by a vassal instead of a rival. The city was handed over to Raymond's eldest son Bertrand who had just been summoned from the West. As a new arrival he was dependent on Baldwin's support, and was much less likely to cause trouble.

  The king could now be rightfully hailed as the preeminent commander in the East, but he wasn't yet finished. He followed up the victory with a drive north to conquer the remaining coastline. With the help of a fleet sent by the Norwegian king, Sigurd the Crusader, Baldwin captured both Sidon and Beirut in 1110, wresting most of Lebanon from Islamic control. He then turned south and swept down the coast. By the end of the next decade, nearly the entire Palestinian seaboard was his, with only Tyre and Ascalon still holding out.

  The tireless, and mostly thankless work had exhausted Baldwin. He was now in his late fifties and virtually the only surviving member of the original crusading leaders. The past few years in particular had seen a great changing of the guard. Bohemond's nephew Tancred had expired in 1112 after a short sickness, the same year that Raymond's son Bertrand had died. Their deaths were followed in 1118 by those of Urban's successor Paschal II, and the emperor Alexius Comnenus, the brilliant foil of the First Crusade.

  Baldwin, clearly aging, led a final strike into Egypt to blunt the growing power of the Fatimids. When he got to the Nile, he was surprised by the great quantity of fish, which were abundant enough for his knights to catch on the tips of their lances. That night he complained of a terrible pain which was attributed to his over-indulgence at the dinner table, but failed to improve with rest. The decision to return was made too late. On April 2, 1118, Baldwin I expired in the small Egyptian town of al-Arish.78

  His loss was a severe blow to all of Outremer. He had found the kingdom of Jerusalem a disorganized, chaotic mess and transformed it into a strong and stable state. With equal parts brilliance and hard work, he had established a centralized monarchy, and had ensured its lines of communication with the sea. Even more impressively, he had accomplished the nearly impossible task of forcing the squabbling barons to work together. Baldwin, more than anyone else, was the ar
chitect of the continued Christian presence in Palestine. His absence was felt immediately.

  Chapter 8: The Field of Blood

  “This hatred and scorn gave rise to our loss…”

  – William of Tyre

  Baldwin's death left the kingdom of Jerusalem at a crossroads. He had no surviving children, and his closest male heir, his older brother Eustace of Boulogne, was in Europe and not eager to leave the comfort of his home. After much deliberation, the assembled barons of Outremer elected to give the crown to the late king's cousin, Baldwin of Le Bourg, the last surviving noble member of the original crusading generation.

  The new king, who was crowned on Easter Sunday, 1118, was a study in contrast to the old regime. Where Baldwin I had been gregarious and charismatic, Baldwin II was private and guarded. Though he lacked the common touch of his predecessor, he was devoutly pious, and determined to be a good steward of the kingdom.

  He was tested immediately. The saving grace of Outremer had always been the disunity of its enemies. The Shi’ites of Egypt and the Turkish Sunnis of Syria had always been more concerned with attacking each other to purify Islam than the mutual Christian enemy between them. The success of Baldwin I, however, had convinced them to patch up their differences in the face of this greater threat. Within weeks of his accession, Baldwin II was informed that a joint Shi’ite Fatimid and Sunni Turkish army was marching up from the south. This was the kind of nightmare that woke sensible crusaders in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

  Baldwin II gathered the entire strength of the kingdom and marched out to confront them. For three months the two armies stared at each other, neither willing to make the first move. To the Muslims the western knights still had the aura of invincibility, while the Franks were unsure of their new king's prowess and – as a contemporary succinctly put it – preferred living to dying.

  Eventually, the reputation of the Franks won the day. The Islamic leaders, unwilling to risk a battle or maintain their alliance indefinitely withdrew, and the threat melted away. It was at least a small victory to start the new king’s reign, but whatever luster bestowed on Baldwin II was quickly undone the next year. The Frankish reputation for invincibility could cut both ways, since it convinced otherwise sensible westerners to take outrageous risks. Roger, the new Prince of Antioch, upon whose well-being the security of the entire Christian north depended, decided that his eastern border needed shoring up, and launched a full-scale attack on the emirate of Aleppo.

  This wasn't the first time that Aleppo had faced an invasion from Antioch, and the emir was well prepared. He had allied with other emirs as far away as Damascus, nearly two hundred miles to the south, and had raised an army forty thousand strong. Baldwin II sent frantic messages, begging Roger to postpone the attack until he arrived, but Roger was eager to come to grips with the enemy and ignored him, marching with seven hundred knights and four thousand infantry into the desolate country of present-day western Syria.

  Thanks to his spies, the Emir of Aleppo was well aware of Roger's every move. He waited until the Christians had reached a waterless plain and then, in the evening of June 27, 1119, launched a probing attack that was only driven off after a desperate struggle. At last Roger realized the danger he was in. The same spies that had kept the Muslims aware of his movements had misled him into believing the emir's army was far away. Scouts who were sent out confirmed his worst fears – the crusaders were completely surrounded.

  That night there was little rest in the Christian camp. Those who did manage to sleep were plagued by nightmares and the cries of a sleep-walker who ran through the camp shouting that they were doomed. Early the next morning, with a hot, dry wind blowing dust in their faces, the crusaders tried to break out of the encirclement, and a handful of knights managed to slip through the lines. They were the only survivors.

  The butchery was such that ever after the site of the battle was known as Ager Sanguinis – the field of blood. The lucky ones died fighting. Those who were captured were dragged back to Aleppo in chains where they were tortured to death by the jeering crowds in the streets. The sheer scale of the disaster was difficult to fathom. The crusaders, always short of manpower, had lost the entire fighting strength of one of their most powerful states in a single blow. Even worse, the myth of crusader superiority was crushed forever. The belief, shared by both sides, that Frankish knights were superior fighters had sheltered the crusaders from being overwhelmed by their far more numerous enemies. Now even that thin shield was gone, and increasingly bold attacks were surely on the way.

  The only thing that saved Antioch from falling immediately was the Emir of Aleppo's failure to follow up his great victory. The field of blood was a monumental success, a ringing emotional and political triumph against the hated crusaders. Surely the moment deserved a bit of showboating. Accolades poured in. The caliph in Baghdad sent a robe of honor along with the title 'Star of the Faith', and he was lionized in song. Only a bout of sickness, brought on by a series of lavish parties he threw for himself, brought the crowing to an end. He roused himself to raid Antioch's suburbs, but the moment had passed. No serious attempt was made to either take the city or prevent king Baldwin II from marching to its relief.

  The only positive outcome from the disaster as far as Outremer was concerned, was that it underscored the need for the barons to work together to survive. That meant having a unified strategy and commander. No more adventuring or posturing – from now on, the King of Jerusalem was their clearly recognized overlord.

  As gratifying as that may have been to Baldwin II, however, it did nothing to address the danger that the entire north was now in. He did his best to project strength by marching east to confront the Emir of Aleppo's army, but the resulting battle was confused enough for each side to claim victory. It bought him some time, but even a direct victory couldn't mask the main problem. Baldwin II couldn't repopulate Antioch’s depleted garrison out of thin air or create new soldiers to replace those who had been lost. His only hope was to get help from overseas. Within months of the field of blood, he had dispatched an urgent plea to the pope, begging him to preach another crusade.

  The Military Orders

  The desperation of the time spawned one of the most notable features of crusader life in Outremer. Sometime in 1118, a French knight by the name of Hugh of Payns had visited Jerusalem, accompanied by eight companions. Unlike many pilgrims, they had come with the intention of staying, dedicating their lives to Christ and their swords to the protection of the poor. Since all of them expressed the desire to become monks, the Patriarch of Jerusalem administered the usual three monastic vows – poverty, obedience, and purity.

  The times, however, called for something more. Hugh and his comrades were men of war, desperately needed as fighters. They had come to serve, and – probably at Hugh's insistence – the Patriarch added a fourth vow. They were charged with protecting pilgrims on the route to Jerusalem.

  For the first time in Christianity, monastic discipline was fused with military skills. Hugh and his followers now had a sacred mandate to use violence to protect the poor and keep the pilgrimage routes open. As a sign of the importance of this mission, King Baldwin offered Hugh part of his own palace to serve as headquarters, and rooms were cleared in the building that had formerly been the al-Aqsa mosque on the Temple Mount.79 Hugh and his knights were officially given the unwieldy name of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, but were more commonly known as the Knights Templar, or more simply, Templars.

  Hugh's new group – with their instantly recognizable white monastic cloaks emblazoned with a red cross – proved immensely popular. In 1128 the Templar Order received the blessing of the pope, which led to huge numbers of recruits. Since their mandate included the protection of pilgrims – wherever they were – they could soon be seen throughout Europe. The individual members, true to their vows, were impoverished, but the order itself soon grew quite wealthy. A large reason for this was an ingenious ser
vice that they offered. Because they were in every western European country as well as the near east, they served as a convenient means of transferring money. Pilgrims could deposit funds in their home country and when they reached the Holy Land, could present their receipt to collect it again for a minimum service charge. The Templars effectively became the world's first international bank.

  They were soon joined by a second military order. As early as the start of the eleventh century a group of pilgrims had founded a hospital in Jerusalem for the care of travelers. In the year before the occupation of the city, all Christians had been expelled from Jerusalem, and the hospital had closed, but when the crusaders took the city, a group of monks from the abbey of St. Mary of the Latins – located in the heart of the Old City – decided to start another dedicated to the author of one of the gospels, St. John. They were officially named the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem, and were easily distinguishable from their Templar brethren by the black robes they wore with a white cross sewn onto the left sleeve.

  More commonly known as the Knights Hospitaller – or simply Hospitallers – these monks took seriously Christ’s instruction to treat the ignored sections of society well. The sick and particularly the poor – who they referred to as the 'holy poor' – were given special attention. Men and women who had never slept in proper beds were given luxurious accommodations. They were clothed with fresh garments and given lavish meals of meat and wine, all at the expense of the Hospitallers. As the influx of pilgrims grew, so too did the hospital. By 1113 it had more than two thousand beds and the group been formally recognized as a religious order. Over the course of the twelfth century, the need to protect as well as care for pilgrims grew, and the Hospitallers, although they never relinquished their original mission of caring for the sick and poor, gradually transformed into a military order.