Knights of the Cross (23 page)

I said nothing.

‘The tower is kept by a man named Firouz. He is a Turk, but he speaks your tongue. You will accompany the first party up the ladder and tell him that I have come.’

I did not ask how he knew this, or how he could be certain that we would not meet a shower of spears and arrows when we reached the wall. ‘Now?’

‘As soon as the watch has passed.’ Bohemond looked up at the sky. ‘We must be swift. Dawn is not far off.’

We waited in silence, watching the walls. As the minutes passed the stones seemed to become brighter, more distinct, and the light in the window faded. A bird began to mewl its mournful song, and was swiftly answered by another. Bohemond fidgeted, while I kept still and felt my limbs grow stiff and damp with dew.

‘There.’

I looked up. A light was advancing along the walls, dizzyingly high above us, blinking as it passed behind the teeth of the battlements. It disappeared into the tower. Bohemond’s knuckles were now white around an exposed tree root.

‘Do you have a cross?’

I fumbled about my neck and dragged my silver cross from under the mail.

‘Wear it openly. It is not yet so light that we will be obvious to each other.’

The torch emerged on the far side of the tower, so close that I could see the shadows of the men who carried it. I heard laughter: no doubt the news of Kerbogha’s approach had lifted their spirits. I prayed that it would equally have blinded them to danger.

The light reached the bend in the wall, turned, and vanished out of sight.

‘Now.’

A dozen knights rose from the shadows and ran across the open ground. With a shove against my shoulders I was sent staggering after them. My shield and armour weighed on me like rocks; every stride seemed to fall short of where I stretched it. My legs throbbed with the effort, and with my head bowed I could see neither friend nor foe. To any archer on the rampart I would be an effortless target.

I came under the walls and dropped to my knees. On my right I could hear the urgent sounds of men searching through undergrowth; then a hiss of triumph. Wood creaked as the knights gathered round the ladder and raised it above them, shuddering as it swayed through the air. It knocked against the wall, rebounded, then settled on the stone.

‘You.’

One of the knights who held the ladder beckoned me over. ‘Climb up there and explain that the Lord Bohemond has come.’

Too drained to argue, I swung myself onto the ladder and began to climb. For months I had stared at these walls, willing them to open and wondering how it would feel ever to break through them: now, as I pulled myself hand over hand toward their summit, I could think of nothing save the frailty of the ladder. It might have been left by the original Roman architects, for the timber was brittle to the touch and every rung groaned beneath my tread. Higher and higher I went, my hands shaking so hard that I almost lost my grip. If I fell, or if the ladder broke now, the impact would snap my back in two.

The ladder held. Now I could see the edge of the parapet looming above me. Three more rungs. Two. I stretched out my arms, feeling the ladder wobble with the movement, gripped the battlements and hauled myself between them. My armour rasped in the night as I slithered through the embrasure on my belly; then I was through and standing, gasping, on the top of the wall.

I was inside the city.

I had no time to think about it. A man in scaled armour and a turban was striding towards me, his dark face twisted with dread. It seemed strange that after so much danger we should arrive to find ourselves feared, but somehow his anxiety quelled my own racking terror. At his feet, I noticed, two Turks lay in pools of blood.

‘
Bohemond, pou?
’ he asked, waving his hands furiously. So little did I expect it from this Ishmaelite, and so thick was his accent, that he had to repeat it twice more before I understood he spoke in Greek.

‘
Bohemond, etho
. Bohemond is here.’

A Norman had come up behind me. ‘What does he say?’ he demanded.

‘He asks where Bohemond is.’

‘Tell him Bohemond awaits my sign that he has brought us here in good faith.’

I put this to the Turk.

‘Too few Franj, too few. If I give my tower, it must be to Bohemond only. And his army – he promised he brings his army.’

I relayed his words in the Norman dialect. While we spoke, the knights had continued to crawl over the wall, but with only a single ladder for access they were still alarmingly few. No wonder the Turk trembled to betray the city to us.

‘Mushid, he say Bohemond come with army. Where is Mushid?’

It was the last name that I had expected to hear in that place, while men lay dead at my feet and knights hurried past into the tower. Before I could question him, though, a new voice sounded from the foot of the ladder.

‘Firouz!’

The Turk thrust his head out between the battlements and stared down; I looked out beside him. At the foot of the ladder stood Bohemond, his face ashen in the early dawn.

‘What is happening up there?’ he called. ‘Is it safe?’

I lifted myself forward so that he could see me clearly. ‘It is safe. There is no trap. But the Turk is anxious – he wants you to join him as proof of your intent. He fears you have brought too few knights.’

‘Tell him I have many more men in the gully. If we had another ladder, they would be over sooner.’

I translated his words.

‘There is a gate,’ said the Turk, agitated. ‘Not big, but faster. At the bottom of the tower, down the hill.’

I was about to relay this to Bohemond, but suddenly an enormous
crack
tore through the air. The ladder was gone: it no longer leaned against the battlements but lay in splintered pieces on the ground. Three or four bodies were strewn among the wreckage, unmoving.

An unearthly scream of rage howled forth from Bohemond, so loud that it must have been heard in the encampment on the plain. His sword was in his hand, and for a moment I thought he might smash it on the wall in his fury. But before he could move a new sound rose from further along the rampart, shouts of anger and alarm. A clutch of fiery torches appeared from one of the distant towers, and by their light I saw spears hastening towards us.

I grabbed Firouz and spun him about. ‘Are they your men?’

He shook his head. ‘They have heard us. We are trapped. Your men are outside; they will only see us cut in pieces. We are dead.’

As if to prove his words, an arrow slammed into the battlement in front of us. I dived to the ground, pulling Firouz with me as more arrows clattered off the stones above. Some of the Normans had managed to form a line across the parapet, kneeling behind their tall shields, but we were too few. Soon, I feared, every Turk in Antioch would be upon us.

Firouz began to crawl back towards his tower, dragging himself through puddles of blood. Following, I hauled on the hem of his armour and pulled him back.

‘You spoke of a gate,’ I shouted, trying to make myself heard over the rising roar of battle. ‘There are five hundred men beyond the wall with Bohemond – if they can break in, they may yet save us.’

He stared at me witlessly. His beard and armour were smeared red with blood, and I feared for a second that an unseen missile might have struck him. Then he nodded.

‘Through the tower.’

Ducking beneath the arrows that fell around us, we scrambled on our knees into the guardroom. A dead Turk lay sprawled over a wooden stool, stabbed through the eye, while three Normans struggled to barricade the far door. In one corner an opening in the floor led onto a twisting stairwell.

I lifted my silver cross and thrust it before the Normans, just in time to stay their swords. ‘Come with me. There is a gate.’

I led the way down the curving steps, my shield held before me and my sword arm pressed uncomfortably close to the wall. No one opposed us. At the bottom another door led out onto the mountainside, inside the city. It was land we had dreamed of treading for months, yet now we did not even notice.

‘Which way?’

Firouz pointed down the hill. Not far off, about halfway between two looming towers, I saw a small gate set in the wall, scarcely as high as a man. Thick timbers barred it, but it was not defended.

‘Be swift,’ said one of the Normans grimly. ‘I hear more enemies approaching.’

We ran down to the gate. The knights circled us with their shields, while Firouz and I worked feverishly to loosen the bars which held the door. It could not have been opened in years, for the wood was thick with grime. I strained in vain to pull the bar free from its rusting brackets.

‘Make haste.’

I looked back. A company of Turks were charging up the hill, spears raised before them. More arrows started to fall, several of them thudding into the Norman shields. One even stuck in the timbers of the gate.

I knelt, mumbling prayers under my breath, and thumped the pommel of my sword up against the bar. The impact numbed my arm, but I repeated the blow again. Still it did not move. The din of battle sounded on the walls behind us and the Turks on the slope below drew ever closer.

‘There.’ The bar had moved. Another blow lifted it higher, before a third dislodged it completely. It fell forgotten to the ground. Still the gate would not open, for an iron bolt held it. I hammered frantically. Behind me one of the knights broke ranks and charged down the hill, tearing into the Turkish line like a ram. I heard the chilling ring of clashing metal, and he was swallowed beneath them.

With the ponderous grate of age, the bolt slid clear of its socket. In an instant Firouz and I had our shoulders against the door and were heaving it open. The sun was rising and grey light flooded the hillside beyond. Barely twenty yards away yawned the gully where the Normans waited.

I do not remember what I shouted, only that I had to repeat it for what seemed an eternity before the first of Bohemond’s men began sprinting across the open ground, shields held aloft against the archers on the walls. The first one came through the gate, caught an arrow in the throat and died immediately; the second threw himself to the earth, rolled aside, then leaped into a crouch with his shield before him. Together with Firouz and the other knights we formed a thin line in front of the door. Spears stabbed at us; one grazed my cheek and another glanced off my shoulder. In another minute we would be slaughtered.

But our line did not shrink; instead, at last, it began to swell. Norman spears thrust over our heads, stabbing back the Turkish attackers. Behind me I could feel a press of bodies pushing me forward, and as our line bulged out men squeezed in among us. When I slipped on the bloody ground, the Turks did not charge through the gap; instead, a Norman was instantly in my place. In seconds I was left behind, while ever more Normans ran by to join the battle. Some found the steps in the tower and gained the walls, throwing down the Turks who defended them to be hacked apart by the men below.

Bohemond strode through the gate, his red cloak like fire behind him. His bloodless sword shone pale in the dawn. ‘The city lies open before us,’ he bellowed, and every man roared approval. ‘But victory is not assured. William – bring your company with mine to the western gates, so that we may throw them open and complete the rout. Rainulf – take my standard to the highest point and plant it where all can see that the city is taken.’

In the rush that followed his words I was entirely forgotten. Most of the Normans hastened down the slope with their captain, their appetite for plunder and slaughter undimmed, though a few stayed behind to secure the towers and dispatch the Turks who survived. All ignored me. For a time I sat in silence on a mounting block, watching them, but soon the stink of blood and death overwhelmed me. I walked away, wandering dazed and alone across the scrubby mountainside. The first fingers of sunlight were reaching over the ridge above and a new day dawned over Antioch. It gave me little hope.

I reached a small promontory on the shoulder of the mountain and looked down. Thick smoke rose from the city below, and an occasional gust of wind brought the faint echoes of screams and clashing steel to my ears. I could see the great gates lying open, the hordes of tiny figures swarming through like ants come to ravish a carcass, but I had not the strength to care. I was empty, poured out like water, my heart melted like wax.

Antioch was ours.

II

Besiegers

3 June – 1 August 1098

The Franks exploded into the city like a vessel of flaming oil, splashing fire and death wherever they touched. On the walls, in streets and squares, in their homes and fields, men died and women were broken. Worthless possessions were dragged from houses merely because they could be stolen, then abandoned because they were cumbersome, then set alight because they would burn. Order was hateful, confusion master. By afternoon most of the killing was done.