Authors: Jack Ludlow
With the whole city in a spasm of religious fervour, Peter Bartholomew called for the sinners to fast yet more vigorously and to give up to
God alms that would be used to aid their deliverance, and thousands complied, it being noted that such coins as were gifted ended up with Raymond of Toulouse to swell his coffers to such an extent that he was soon far ahead of his peers in wealth and therefore influence.
‘I wonder,’ Bohemund opined, ‘if anyone thought to search this Bartholomew before he entered St Peter’s Church?’ That Tancred doubted the wisdom of such an enquiry was plain to see; his faith had always been stronger. ‘Examine the tale, nephew, and ask yourself if it is not a miracle too far?’
‘Miracles happen, Uncle.’
‘So I do believe, even if I have never witnessed one. But the convenience of this troubles me.’
‘Do you intend to question and deny it?’
‘No. Adémar, I suspect, thinks as I do, Robert of Normandy also, but if anyone is going to doubt it is a true relic let it be a consecrated bishop.’
‘Is he not a Provençal bishop?’
That got a meaningful shrug, for Adémar and Toulouse came from the same part of Christendom. ‘If he is careful not to cause Raymond offence, for the sake of harmony, that is an attribute he applies to us all. He will not show partiality.’
‘Adémar dare not say it is false when all of Christian Antioch thinks it genuine.’
‘Not all, Tancred, but that is less important than that he stops anyone from using it to guide our actions. Let the ones who hold it to be a true point of the Holy Lance take what comfort they need from it being in their midst. But it will not feed them nor will it drive off Kerbogha and his thousands.’
‘My Lords,’ Raymond said to the assembly of his peers, this accompanied by an arch look of triumph, ‘who can not welcome the prospect of divine intervention?’
That brought a murmur of ‘Amens’, which faded somewhat as the Count of Taranto spoke out to repeat what he had said to Tancred about the shortage of food and the very powerful enemy encamped nearby, as well as the fact that no word had come of Byzantine aid.
‘If we remain within Antioch we will either die from hunger or be so weak as to be unable to resist.’ Pausing to await the comments of others, none came; he had spoken the unvarnished truth and all knew it. ‘Such is the dearth of food that we are talking of days before we will be obliged to throw ourselves on the mercy of Kerbogha, which I suspect will not be in large supply.’
‘Even a Turk likes ransom,’ Vermandois insisted.
‘True, Count Hugh, but while we may be sold back to our subjects, those we lead will not, and who knows, he may cut our throats as quick as he slices theirs. I look around me and ask who is inclined to trust in his greed?’
‘Not I,’ Robert of Normandy stated, emphatically.
Raymond, who had with him the Holy Lance, held his relic out for all to see. ‘Let us seek terms. If this divine object cannot feed us or drive our enemies away, perhaps that is not the message it brings.’
‘You think,’ Adémar responded, ‘that it will aid us in negotiation?’
‘I am bound to ask why we have not tried before to talk to the Atabeg?’
Godfrey of Bouillon responded to that by showing a rare flash of exasperation. ‘You know very well, My Lord, that it is common in siege for those outside the walls to demand we cease to resist.
Kerbogha has not followed that custom; in short, he has not come to us with terms.’
‘Then we must go to him,’ Raymond insisted, ‘with an offer to allow us to depart Antioch as a host. Does he want the city or our blood?’
‘I would say our heads on pikes would satisfy him,’ Bohemund replied.
‘I say it is worth an attempt.’
Bohemund was adamant. ‘While I think that will be worse than useless.’
Florid-faced Toulouse went a deeper shade of scarlet but he got no chance to speak, for Adémar exercised his right to do so as the man who acted as the representative of the Pope. If few believed what Raymond proposed to be the case, it led to a long and heated discussion in which his view finally held sway, for in truth it was folly to keep fighting in a hopeless situation if the mere surrender of the city might spare them.
The first suggestion, that Adémar should go as envoy, was squashed by Godfrey of Bouillon, who required much circumlocution to tell his peers that the Bishop was too valuable to be made a hostage to fortune without bringing the cleric to the blush. In truth, he held the ground between them, which might turn to open conflict were he no longer alive.
Yet no one else would put themselves forward, Godfrey, Raymond and Bohemund included, for what was being spoken of was abject surrender and none amongst these magnates could face being the bearer of such a communication, an act which would stay with their name till the Second Coming. In the end it was decided that Peter the Hermit was a suitable messenger.
‘Will he agree?’ asked Vermandois.
Adémar spoke then in a manner rare for him; he was close to spitting, given the trouble such preachers had caused him ever since he had first encountered them. Peter was a particular bane: months before, when food had been short, and sensing the siege of Antioch to be failing, he had sought to flee back to the safety of Constantinople, only to be pursued, captured and brought back.
‘After his attempt at flight he will do what he is told, if for no other reason than to redeem himself. He has learnt Greek since he came to the east, if he has learnt little else. Let him put that to our use.’
Peter was called to the Bishop, as ever looking like a biblical prophet with his long snowy hair and beard, as well as the look of mysticism he had in his eyes, to be reminded of his disgraceful transgression and how he had not been as severely punished as he should have been for deserting people who he had claimed as his flock.
He would be given an interpreter, a fellow called Firuz, who had been suggested by Count Bohemund, and he would go to Kerbogha’s camp. That such a command provoked terror in the old man’s soul was obvious, yet he knew his sin was not forgiven but in remission and that Adémar had the power to apply whatever sanction he chose.
The prospect of being burnt as a traitor to the Crusade, which had been hinted at by Adémar and was felt, it seemed, to be a just fate by the higher lords, was greater than any fear of the Atabeg and with heavy tread he prepared, next morning, to exit one of the smaller gates with a truce flag, dressed in robes of white, to make his way towards the camp of a man he thought near to the devil.
Firuz stood with Peter. Prior to surrendering his tower to the Apulians and facilitating the capture of the city, he had been a Muslim convert but was now once more a Christian. The Armenian
was less fearful than the preacher: he was a military man and had that carapace of indifference to death that attended his chosen profession. Living and dying was in the hands of powers greater than he, but he had a task to perform, one outlined by Bohemund.
So far, Kerbogha had employed mainly Turks to invest and attack the city – it was they who had issued from the citadel and only once had he tested the walls with mixed contingents. The men he had left in the nearby camps, easy to distinguish because of their attire, had been of the same single and clearly dependable race. To rate the quality and spirit of the rest of the enemy host, those yet to be committed to battle, had been denied to the Crusaders, so Firuz was to examine with great care the main Islamic lines and report back what he observed about their make-up, strength and confidence.
J
ust getting the Hermit and Firuz out of the Bridge Gate took much negotiation, indeed permission had to be sought from Kerbogha himself to allow them passage, consent brought back by a richly dressed rider leading what was clearly a strong escort. So with a final sign of the cross the pair slipped through the postern gate and crossed the arched stone bridge to the other side of the River Orontes.
The main Turkish encampment was just south of the western end of the Iron Bridge and as soon as they were sighted, what was a seemingly somnolent area of tents and cooking fires came to life; men leapt to their feet and hurried to see this apparition in his flowing robes, others exited their canvas to come and stare at Peter and his plainly clad companion, their escort slowing so they could be clearly seen and derided.
‘Keep your head high,’ Firuz commanded, as Peter let it sink on his chest rather than meet an enemy look. ‘Do not show fear if you want to live.’
The eyes of the Armenian were darting around, doing what he had been asked, seeking to drink in what he could of the dispositions of Kerbogha’s host as well as their true numbers, for the messages that had come into Antioch over the weeks since the arrival of this army had thrown up variations that were either low and designed to reassure, or fantastical and aimed at inducing terror.
Some estimate of the true figure could be discerned from the time it took to get from the edge of the camp to the centre, where sat the huge black pavilion of Kerbogha. Here were camped his own personal retainers, those on guard duty well armed, alert and wearing mail, leading Firuz to wonder if they were set there to protect their lord from his own host rather than display.
Once outside the main flap they were forced to wait in the broiling sun, offered nothing to drink or even spoken to by those entering and exiting with their leader’s commands. They also had to wait when the entire host was called to prayer, Peter at last allowed to close his eyes, in truth joining in the devotions to pray for his corporeal body not his soul.
When they were called to go inside that was carried out in silence, merely a sharp nod by a man who pulled aside the flap designed to keep out the dust, while inside the passageway there were bowls of burning incense to kill off the latrine smell which attended the gathering of every host. Through another flap they entered the main area, lit by numerous oil lamps that sent out shadows that seemed to exaggerate the hard features of the Turkish commander.
Kerbogha had a visage that went with his reputation: long, oiled hair swept back to expose a narrow, much lined brow, heavy eyebrows atop black orbs that rarely blinked, hooked nose over full lips that arced down at the corners and a prominent chin covered with a well-trimmed
beard, all set off by his dark skin. Hunched forward it was still possible to see he was a man of some strength, for he wore a short, sleeveless tunic that exposed his muscular arms while his calves were likewise huge. When he spoke his voice seemed to be coming from the soles of his soft leather boots.
‘He asks why we have come,’ Firuz said.
It was a tremulous voice that replied; Peter was in dread of his imagined fate and if it was not the one he had faced in Antioch, it promised to be even worse. ‘You can tell him.’
‘You must speak, Peter,’ Firuz hissed. ‘It must seem to come from you, and choose your words with care for there will be Greek speakers in this tent. Also, look him in the eye and reply with firmness. Imagine you are preaching to your flock and that God is using you as his instrument.’
It was not immediate; Peter seemed to want to fill his body with air before he opened his mouth and steadied his nerves. When words did come out, they made him sound more demanding than good sense allowed.
‘I am Peter the Hermit and I come from the mighty Council of Princes of the Holy Crusade.’
Firuz translated that in a softer tone and with a higher degree of tact, the council being noble not mighty, not that it mattered for another whispered the true words in Kerbogha’s ear.
‘I have come to seek by what terms you will allow us pass out of Antioch and make our way back to our far-off homes?’
Firuz added to that, ‘In peace.’
The Atabeg actually began to laugh, it starting with a chuckle then turning into a bellow of amusement, soon taken up by all his attendants. Peter and Firuz watched as his head went back and his
body rocked in his curule chair, so hard that the front legs were lifted from the floor. Then it died out, like a candle being extinguished, to be replaced by a glare that had Peter take an alarmed step backwards, only stopped from going further by the restraining arm of Firuz.
‘Did you come in peace?’ Kerbogha demanded, not waiting for a reply, leaving Firuz talking simultaneously and quietly while the Atabeg ranted about Crusaders, Franks, the Christian faith – Latin and Orthodox – as well as the crimes of all of those and the mercy of Islam, spittle bursting from those thick, dark lips to spray the carpeted ground between them until he concluded and sat back with the words, ‘You came to kill, it is fitting, therefore, that you should die.’
It took some nudging to get Peter to deliver the offer as it had been given to him by the council: that the Crusaders and the pilgrims would abandon any attempt to get to Palestine and march instead to the north, leaving behind their arms and what few mounts they still possessed as well as any treasure they still had from their previous actions. Nor would they stop, not even at Constantinople.
‘It is also my duty,’ Firuz translated, ‘to remind you that we are not alone in making war on your faith. We act in concert with the mighty Emperor Alexius of Byzantium who is at this very moment marching to our aid.’
An idea put forward by Vermandois, for once his suggestion had not been ignored – that it was wasted became obvious after another bout of loud mirth.
‘Your mighty emperor is now marching back to his capital, burning everything in his wake, crops, shelter, slaughtering animals to stop me from pursuing and destroying him. That is because he thinks you lost, which proves that for a Christian he is no fool.’
Peter, shocked at such news, had to be nudged to say, ‘Our offer stands.’
The Atabeg made a pretence of thinking on it, only to slowly shake his head and start speaking again, the low and calm of his voice lending more effect to his words than if he had shouted them, Firuz matching the tone.
‘No messenger, go back to your mighty council and tell them they are as sheep and their offer a bleat. Perhaps they will, like that beast, succumb and be roasted on my fires. Or maybe they will die from lack of pasture.’
That last notion seemed to amuse Kerbogha; it chilled the men at whom it was aimed.
‘My host will pray you to come out and fight, but Allah does not always grant a wish to the faithful. So you will expire from a lack of food, and when your knights can no longer stand and do battle I will walk into Antioch at my pleasure.’
Kerbogha fell silent for a moment, which had all eyes on him for it was plain he had not finished. If it was merely for effect it worked.
‘I offer you this, for it is not fitting that I should fail to be merciful. Leave the city and your clothing, banners, weapons and armour, come out naked and I promise you will all die quickly, rather than the slow death you now face. And because Allah is merciful he will take to his bosom anyone who turns to the Prophet and the true faith.’
Peter opened his mouth to speak but the sharp command to take both he and Firuz back to Antioch cut right across the attempt. As they left the pavilion Firuz whispered that Peter should walk slowly and look sad, an admonition that was in fact unnecessary, for the older man was near to stumbling and tears ran down his cheeks.
Clearly he feared what was coming, which made a fellow who had
converted twice wonder at why a preacher who claimed to be so holy and had spent his life spreading the gospel and underlining the route to salvation was so frightened to meet his maker?
It took time enough to assemble the council and that allowed Bohemund to question Firuz about what he had observed. The Armenian was truthful: the host was great, well armed and seemed in good spirits, with no sign of dissension amongst the various groupings. Antioch being a trading city was a magnet to merchants from all over the interior, so Firuz had, by what they wore on their heads and the colouring of their garments, been able to identify the different clans and sub-faiths that made up Kerbogha’s army, not without a sense of wonder that such grouping, famed for their internecine conflicts, could ever come together. In his opinion this was only made possible by the evil reputation of their general.
‘Tell me everything, from the moment you entered the camp to the time you left.’
That took a while, with Bohemund listening and saying not a word, until a call came to say that the council was assembled and his presence was required. The air he adopted when he entered the chamber, of seeming confidence, stood in stark contrast to the looks of gloom by which he was greeted and he maintained that as the message Peter had been given was relayed in all its barbarous clarity.
‘Do you think it true about the Emperor?’ Vermandois asked, in a manner that spoke of near despair.
‘I cannot see,’ Normandy replied, ‘why Kerbogha would lie, and, if there was threat from the north, would he still be in his full strength where he is camped?’
Robert of Flanders pitched in. ‘Sense would dictate he moves to
meet that threat if it exists. It takes little of his forces to keep us bottled up.’
‘Then we must do what he least expects,’ said Bohemund softly.
‘What do you suggest, Count Bohemund?’ Adémar asked.
‘We must fight him and beat him, but on terms of our choosing.’
‘Easily advanced,’ Vermandois scoffed, ‘but how do you think that can be achieved?’
‘Surely if the Holy Lance has a purpose, it is to aid us in that!’
The reactions to those words were mixed, but Raymond of Toulouse was openly irritated – Bohemund’s scepticism about the relic and how it was discovered had not remained a secret for the very simple reason he had made no attempt that it should.
Godfrey of Bouillon spoke next. ‘Whatever the Holy Lance brings to our cause, Count Bohemund has the right of it. We stay here within the walls and starve like curs or we die like men in battle.’
‘Outside the walls,’ Bohemund insisted.
This was said with a grateful look at Godfrey, whose views carried weight. That there was mutual regard was true; Bohemund, with the aid of Tancred, had, a year past, saved Godfrey’s life when he was about to be killed by a bear that had already savaged him severely. Yet he would not grant an opinion based on gratitude just for the sake of that; if Godfrey spoke it was with honesty.
‘We can barely muster a hundred fit horses,’ Raymond protested.
‘And if we had ten thousand I would not employ them. To go to Kerbogha would be fatal, for that allows him to choose the field of battle, something my forebears taught me was always a flawed notion. Let us choose where we fight, let us make him come to us and let us fight on foot as we did at Dorylaeum.’
‘Which you would have lost without we came to your relief.’
‘We held for a day and would have held for another,’ Normandy barked, for no knight liked his deeds to be belittled and the Normans had held off a Turkish force that massively outnumbered them. ‘The enemy you and your companions chased from the field was one we had much diminished.’
In truth it had been nip and tuck: Bohemund and Duke Robert, riding ahead from Nicaea with a third of the crusading host to ease the problem of supply, had been caught unawares by a force of Turks, led by the Sultan of Rüm. Bold action by the Duke and Bohemund, leading their own familia knights, had blunted the initial assault, but it was only sheer bloody-mindedness and ability that had got them out from the men who eventually surrounded them.
Their actions gave Tancred time to get the rest of the host, pilgrims included, into a place the Normans could defend. Retiring into a nearby marsh, with a soft crust of ground that would negate the Turkish cavalry, they had been forced to fight on foot until relief came, which it did when Raymond, Godfrey, Flanders and the Bishop of Puy arrived to chase their attackers away. That had ended in a rout for the Sultan and the capture of much booty.
‘There is still hope that Kerbogha was lying,’ Count Hugh insisted, as if Normandy had not spoken. ‘Alexius might bring the might of Byzantium to our aid.’
Adémar cut off any scoffing by saying quickly to Vermandois that it was a very tenuous thing to hope for and gave ground when Bohemund took up the discussion again.
‘The promises of Alexius Comnenus are worthless – all he has ever been concerned with is the integrity of his empire.’
Nor did he stop at that, for it was time to tell the truth, however unpalatable it was to listen to. How many times had Bohemund been
tempted to tell them this, to show how little trust they should place in the word of a Byzantine emperor, whoever he was and regardless of his winning manner? He could speak his mind instead, acting in a manner that he had been obliged to curb since their first council.
They had been dazzled by Byzantine magnificence and saw virtue where there was corruption and deceit, this driven home by a harsh assessment of the Emperor’s motives. If the Crusade aided him, taking back the old Byzantine possessions from the Seljuk Turks and handing them over to him, such offerings would be gratefully received. If, however, they died in the attempt, that was a loss with which Alexius could live, for in doing so they must diminish those who could threaten him, quite apart from the fact that they might themselves represent a future menace.
‘I fear,’ Adémar responded, ‘and it gives me no joy to admit it, that you may speak the truth.’
‘Mark it, My Lord Bishop, as no lie, for if it was not so, why is Alexius no threat to Kerbogha?’
The weary-looking cleric cast a glance around the assembly, as if seeking someone to refute what Bohemund had said, but not even Raymond was prepared to challenge a man who knew Byzantium too well. Having waited for what seemed an age, Adémar finally set things in motion again.