Authors: Jack Ludlow
The frames were full of knights waiting to get into the action, which could only come about if one of their number succumbed to their front, albeit if that person fell with a mortal wound his falling body was as likely to take with him that of his waiting replacement as slip on by. Try as they did, the Apulians could not breast the battlements in numbers enough to gain a foothold.
For all their prowess in battle the Normans began to show signs of weariness. The arms ached, the throats were too dry to properly breathe, the sweat from exertion filled the eyes to make misty that at which they were aiming, and all was being undertaken with a precarious balance. The saving grace was, apart from the latter, the defence suffered likewise, so that it became possible for exhausted fighters to be replaced on both sides in a battle that was making no progress for either; the Turks could not drive back the Crusaders and
they could not get onto the parapet where their greater height, weight and reach could be made to count.
It was in a short period of rest that Bohemund was able to observe that Raymond was faring no better than he, and if his admiration for the tenacity of the Crusaders was great, be they Apulians or Provençals, he had nobility enough to extend that to a race he had respected ever since he first fought them, for the Turks were every bit as formidable as any Latin and just as inspired by their faith as the most devout Christian.
If he loved battle Bohemund desired success more, so instead of rejoining the fight he took to trying to direct the efforts of his men from below, looking for areas where resistance seemed to be weakening or a gap began to appear and directing them to that spot. Time might have lost all meaning but it was obvious from the state of the light that the fight had been going on for a long time.
Messengers, Firuz included, had been passing to and fro throughout to let Bohemund know if Raymond was making any progress and the news was far from encouraging. Having finally got his tower up to and leaning on the curtain wall he could no more get his men over it than could Bohemund.
Several times the defenders had set it alight, which meant all hands went to the buckets of water needed to douse the flames, warring knights included, while his diversionary attack had faltered completely from lack of the men to push it to a point where the defenders were pinned in place and thus unavailable to thwart the main assault.
‘He has men sapping at the wall beneath the tower.’
This was information Bohemund passed on to a blood-soaked Tancred, who had likewise been obliged to take a rest from fighting
and come to join him. His nephew, who replied through strenuous efforts to get back his breath, suggested that it was a waste of time. How could men, with picks and shovels, in half a day hope to undermine the foundations of such well-constructed walls that had been standing for centuries?
‘And if nothing happens to aid us soon,’ Tancred gasped, using his sword to indicate a darkening sky, ‘we will be obliged to halt the attack.’
‘I have sent for torches. We fight on.’
‘Even if Raymond withdraws?’
‘He had the devil’s own task to get his damn tower into place and I doubt he can get it off again, so he will not abandon it.’
That was part of a message he had received: the front wheels, huge shaped timbers hewn by those English carpenters, had begun to sink into the imperfect ground underneath, its weight dislodging the earth and pebbles, even shifting the rocks that formed a more solid base. Bohemund’s informant reckoned there was no force of men nor beasts that would have the strength to get it off, so there were only two alternatives for the Count of Toulouse: to fight on in the dark or to torch the tower and fall back.
‘And that is a retreat that will not end back in his lines. There’s no time to build another tower with the state of our food.’
‘It would be better Raymond knows we intend to fight on, Uncle.’
The reply to Tancred had to wait until Bohemund had finished directing some of his men to a perceived weak spot, or was it that he wanted to think upon the notion – his nephew did not know – but when he did reply it was in the affirmative.
‘It has to come from a trusted source and my pride will not allow that it be me, so you must be the messenger.’
‘Happily,’ Tancred replied, which got him, even if all he could see was his uncle’s eyes, a less than kindly look.
‘Deliver the message and no more, for I need you here.’
‘Am I allowed to ask Raymond to reinforce us? He must have men free from his failed diversion.’
‘No.’
There was little temptation to dispute that, even if Tancred thought it short-sighted. The mere movement of Raymond’s knights from one wall to another might help to confuse the defence, might cause them to move men best left in place. These thoughts stayed with Tancred as he made his way to where flew Raymond’s banner. The ripple of reaction when he was sighted approaching was unmistakable; indeed, a pair of familia knights were detached in the increasing gloom of a cloudy twilight to intercept him.
He was just about to pass to them his message when they halted with startled expressions and looked beyond him, this at the same time as Tancred spun round, the reason for both a sound not unlike a thunderclap, except it did not come from above. He had to peer to see the crack that began to run up the wall to one side of Raymond’s tower but what followed was easily visible. The battlements at the top of that crack began to sag and with a rumble that sounded like the end of time the whole wall collapsed, to leave, once the dust cleared and Tancred could see, a high pile of rubble and above that a clear breach.
Despite his scoffing, the sappers had succeeded.
I
t took little time for the news of that collapsed curtain wall to find its way to the ears of those opposing the Apulians, less than it took to reach those of the Count of Taranto himself. If he had heard the rumble of that falling masonry he lacked sight of it so had no idea why those Turks who had held his men at bay for so long suddenly stopped fighting. There was a lapse too before those who had been wielding weapons at enemy heads found them to be swishing through fresh air as their adversaries fled, another before they realised that there was no barrier to their climbing over the battlements and onto the parapet.
By the time the truth dawned Bohemund was alongside his men to remind them of his instructions, to take control of the nearest towers and not to seek to get down into the city, an instruction that was not easy to obey given there was no one to obstruct them, indeed it fell to their leader to curtail their progress; he was happy with a few of
the towers of Ma’arrat an-Numan, he did not need them all. Tancred found him on the Apulian side of that collapsed breach, with barely enough light left in the day to see what lay on the other side of the gap.
‘Raymond has called on his men to fall back, leaving only the number needed to secure the battlements.’
‘In God’s name why?’
‘It seems he fears to fight in the streets in darkness, against an enemy that seems to consist of the whole Muslim citizenry of Ma’arrat, which means a fighter and perhaps a knife in every doorway. The cost in blood would be too high, though since he would not talk with me there may be another cause.’
‘I cannot think what it might be,’ came the reply, with a slow shake of the head. ‘Perhaps it is wise.’
‘What do you intend?’
‘Whatever it is will not be served by us standing in the open where we can be seen as soon as someone fetches a torch.’
‘Raymond will know that we have succeeded as well.’
That was said to his uncle’s back; Bohemund was already heading for the nearest tower, and the chamber within that had provided accommodation for the Turks who had previously occupied it. Entering upon his heels, Tancred was asked to shut the studded wood door that led to the breach, which plunged the tiny space into darkness, until Bohemund called for light and a torch was brought, this allowing him to set the flame to the tallow wads resting in the hollow sconces carved out of the solid stone.
The room, cold with thick stone walls and no fire, had a table and chests that served as seats in daylight, then, when set together, as beds at night, on one of which Bohemund sat, indicating that Tancred
should do likewise, before falling into a contemplative silence, his chin resting on the haft of his axe, a position he maintained for some time and held even when his nephew spoke.
‘I think it sensible to wait for daylight.’ That got a slow nod. ‘If the enemy is not truly beaten that means they will still be fired with hope and still numerous enough to spill much blood in the streets.’
‘They are bound, on such a night, to be as dark as pitch and narrow.’
‘Which is deadly.’
‘You are saying it would be equal folly for us to attempt to do what Raymond has postponed?’
‘Possibly, but then there is the notion that we will have a free hand to plunder as well before sunrise.’
‘What of our men, Tancred?’
‘They have obeyed your orders and will continue to do so unless you change them.’
‘Even when tempted by such a rich prize?’
Tancred produced a grim smile. ‘That will not be much use to a man hanging from a doorway for disobedience.’
‘And how, nephew, do you think Raymond would react to find that his own men had been denied any part of what is rightfully theirs, arrived in Ma’arrat to find it plundered by us?’
‘He would have to be incensed, his lances even more so.’
‘Which might push him to act against his better nature.’ Bohemund looked at his nephew and grinned then. ‘Always assuming he has one.’
‘You think he might resort to arms?’
‘He might have no choice, Tancred. The pressure from those he leads might oblige him to seek bloody redress.’ Another silence
followed, Bohemund’s chin was back on the wooden haft of that axe until he had cleared his thoughts. ‘In all my disputes with Raymond, as I have said before to you, I have had a care to never push it to a contest of weapons.’
‘You would kill him in such a fight.’
That got a faint nod but there was no pride in the response; Bohemund was the foremost knight of Christendom and well aware of the fact. He knew that Raymond, even given his prowess as a fighter and leader of men, could never defeat him in single combat. Quite apart from his greater age – he was in his fifties and so a good decade older than Bohemund – there was the sheer difference in height and strength, let alone repute. Such a contest would be an uneven one and Raymond of Toulouse was equally aware of that.
‘And I would have no choice lest I wish him to kill me.’
‘The Crusade,’ Tancred responded in what was a statement not a question.
‘If blood is to be spilt on this venture it will not be by me, or those I lead. I will hold to my papal vow.’
Tancred had to bite his tongue; where did Antioch come in such a declaration?
‘Single combat fills me with no fear, but a battle of factions …’
‘And you sense that here?’ Tancred asked as his uncle’s voice trailed off.
‘I see the possibility.’
‘You could ensure it is single combat by issuing the challenge?’
‘The Provençal knights would not stand to see their leader slain.’
‘So you are going to leave Raymond’s men a free hand to plunder the city?’
‘Never!’ Bohemund spat back, before sitting up and smiling, his
tone benign. ‘But I will wait till his men make their entry before any of ours move a muscle. Then we can happily see to the garrison and plunder in company to our heart’s content. No one can gainsay that.’
‘He will want the governor’s treasury, to compensate for the silver he expended on his siege tower.’
‘Then he best move with speed, for to lay his hands on it he will need to get to it first. Now oblige me by fetching Firuz.’
Raymond of Toulouse had as much discipline over his knights as did Bohemund, so that his instruction to wait until daylight before entering the city was obeyed, as much because his men were exhausted from fighting most of the day as the fear of disobeying their liege lord and the consequences. They were now sat round their fires earnestly discussing the wealth that would be theirs on the morrow, as well as how the Turkish citizenry would pay for their obstinacy.
Such talk had a deeper resonance than in normal times for these men. Since leaving Constantinople most of the towns and cities taken, faced with a formidable and successful Crusader army, had surrendered and opened their gates, only for possession to be taken as imperial fiefs by the body of troops Alexius Comnenus had sent to accompany them, this before treaties were made respecting the inhabitants, which meant plunder was out of the question.
The first occasion on which this had occurred had been at Nicaea, the primary target of the campaign. That had been a proper siege, yet instead of the expected booty and other pleasures which normally came from the surrender of a place that had refused terms, the fighting men, high and low, got nothing. All had stood by to watch Byzantine troops take ownership.
They had been rewarded by the Emperor’s largesse, which if welcome
could not compare with the prospect of what might be gained from a man’s own efforts in a captured city of some size and wealth. The princes and their senior supporters had received gold and silver, the rest had to be content with copper, albeit in abundant quantities.
In Antioch, with Kerbogha’s huge army in the offing, common sense dictated they should not alienate the populace and that debarred the Crusaders from engaging in mass pillage, albeit there had been many individual acts of thievery. Only at Albara had the Provençals been allowed to behave in the time-honoured fashion, that being a proper sack, which whetted an appetite never much hidden.
The mailed knights had, as was commonplace, the best pickings, being first over the walls, able to kill anyone who stood in their way, quick to spot the homes of the wealthier citizens as well as the public buildings, bound to be repositories of high-value items to steal, albeit care had to be taken not to cross the avarice of their liege lord and his senior subordinates. Food and wine was carried off to their own encampments for later consumption and that too applied to any well-born women.
The
milities
coming along behind them, if they often found that the easy pickings were gone, had been able to find booty, if necessary by torturing the ordinary citizens to find out where they had hidden money and provisions their betters had missed, killing those who refused to reveal their secret places while treating their womenfolk of whatever age as chattels to be abused prior to being passed up to their liege lord to be sold into slavery.
By the time the pilgrims got entry to Ma’arrat – those thousands who had followed Raymond and the Holy Lance to Albara and to here – the infidel, from whom they could with a clear conscience steal anything they could find, would have been stripped even down to their
naked bodies, and if they had a storeroom it would be long emptied. The only pleasure to be gained in dealing with the enemies of their faith would be from granting them the choice of forced conversions or immediate death.
Thus it had been at Albara, yet there they had not faced near starvation, which is what afflicted them now. In the short time Bohemund and his Apulians had been outside Ma’arrat, their condition, poor to begin with, had shown a marked deterioration. They had been reduced to rutting in the surrounding landscape for weeds and roots with which to make some kind of soup, while any edible berries had been already picked and consumed.
Now these pilgrims were sat outside a city seemingly devoid of defence – the walls were deserted – with the possibility of well-stocked larders, while those who were armed and could stop them were sat round their fires dreaming of plunder, so here lay an opportunity to be first to the trough. It was not a mass affair or in any way organised: people weighed up their situation and acted in small groups, slipping out of their camp at various intervals to bypass, on a night of Stygian darkness, the sentinels set by Raymond.
When it came to discipline the writ of Raymond and Bohemund ran less well within the minds of their poorer soldiery, the
milities
, who collectively had none of the haughty pretensions, nor the dreams of riches, which exercised the knightly cohorts. If they expected to be second to the sack, and would be on the morrow, it was more of a present concern that they had enjoyed less of the food here at Ma’arrat that kept their betters in superior health.
If they were not starving they were hungry, for food distribution naturally favoured the men in chain mail, who undertook the burden of fighting in a siege, the
milities
being required for the base work of
making and carrying ladders or pulling and pushing the tower built by the Count of Toulouse into place, before plying their shovels to undermine the walls. Had they not, for all their mean standing, brought about the fall of the city, so why should others have first rights?
The movement of the pilgrims did not go unnoticed either – they were camped closer to the
milities
than the lances – and soon bands of foot soldiers, pikes and daggers in hand, were on their heels. In Ma’arrat they found the streets full of pilgrims but free of any Turkish soldiers, who had retreated to the Governor’s Palace to await their fate, while the Muslim citizens who had fought so hard were cowering in their dwellings: nothing stood between them and rich pickings, including the unarmed pilgrims.
Bohemund had sent his interpreter Firuz to seek out the Governor of Ma’arrat with an offer that he should surrender his now untenable city. If he did so and gathered together in a body the leading citizens at his palace, he would provide a strong guard to secure their lives, bound to be forfeit if they did not concur in the frenzy that would follow the entry of the soldiery, regardless of their rank.
Once they were inside the walls there was not a high noble born, however feared he might be, who would be able to control his men in a city that had refused terms. Knights or
milities
it made no difference, each would be determined on what he saw as his just reward, the size of which tended to grow in the imagination the nearer the fall of a city approached, and grew out of all proportion when plunder was to hand.
Not to be cheated of what was theirs by right became the paramount emotion, often fuelled by wine taken to excess – bloodlust apart that was the primary object seized – so that in the unlikely event there was an ounce of compassion contained in a Crusader breast it was soon
swamped by avarice. It was a sad commonplace to find those engaged in plunder, comrades in battle but intoxicated with drink and envy, seeking to rob each other.
Raymond had waited till first light to send forward his own herald to demand the surrender of Ma’arrat, only to discover there was no one in authority prepared to answer the ultimatum, which obliged him to lead his lances and the attendant priests over the breach in the walls and into the streets, where he expected to find the Turks ready to sell their lives dearly.
Instead he came across a teeming mass of pilgrims of both sexes, mixed with his own drunken
milities
, as well as bodies littering streets and alleys that ran with victim blood. More to the point, both groups had in their possession items of gold and silver, while their belts were hung with bulging leather purses.
Mindful of his standing as protector and possessor of the Holy Lance, Raymond forbade his men to take from the pilgrims what they had plundered and that, for military reasons, also had to apply to his
milities
, an instruction for which the citizens of Ma’arrat paid dearly. There would have been unbridled savagery whatever had occurred, but seeing themselves robbed of what they presumed as rightfully theirs sent the mailed lances in a passion even greater than that which would have attended their depredations.