Nevertheless, the army marched to Tiberias and set up camp on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Then it set out across the waterless plain, where there had recently been a plague of locusts. Nothing grew there; the inhabitants lived in subterranean caves; and the Turks, enraged by what they regarded as the duplicity and treachery of the Christians, were already massing their armies.
Everything went wrong. There were continual skirmishes with the enemy. One day, when they were surrounded on the march, they became aware that the enemy was about to attack. Toward evening, the king ordered his men to raise their tents as though there was no enemy in sight. All night they kept a close watch. During the night more Turks came to join the solid ring formed around the Christian camp. The king held a council of war. Some spoke of retreating, others of advancing, while still others thought they could neither retreat nor advance, but must inevitably be destroyed by the enemy where they stood. Unwisely the king ordered the advance. Faith sustained them. The outnumbered Christians hurled themselves against the enemy, hacked their way through the ring, and although they were utterly exhausted and could only keep a snail's pace, they marched on to Bosra.
They were entering the terrible wasteland called Trachonitis, said to derive from the word
tracones
, meaning “underground caves.” Suffering from thirst, they came upon deep wells, let down the buckets, and were not altogether surprised when the ropes were cut by men hidden in subterranean caverns. The dangling ropes were omens of disasters to come. After
four days of thirst and constant skirmishes, they came in sight of Bosra, found water issuing from rocks, and rested in preparation for entering the city the following day, believing that they had earned this triumph by virtue of all the hardships they had sustained.
At midnight a messenger came through the lines to the king's tent. The letter he brought was read to the nobles and the king's councillors. It said that the wife of Altuntash had already surrendered the city to Unur, who had brought up a powerful army and expelled all the Christians living there. The towers and the citadel were manned by Turkish forces. A much larger army than the one they had confronted in the wasteland of Tracho-nitis was now about to be thrown against them.
The medieval mind genuinely believed in miracles and wonders. It was not, therefore, surprising to discover that the king's councillors, believing in the jeweled Cross, thought that if the whole army was lost, then at least the boy-king should be saved and brought safely back to Jerusalem by the simple expedient of giving him the Cross and the fastest horse in the kingdom. How he would find his way, or what would happen if he was captured by the enemy, were not matters that concerned them, for they believed that as king and Cross-bearer, he was under the protection of Christ. The king rejected their advice, saying that he scorned to save his own life while his consecrated soldiers were likely to perish.
The likelihood of disaster was very real, for Nur ed-Din, a master strategist, was now in Bosra planning the destruction of the Christian army. The king ordered a retreat, and soon Nur ed-Din's forces were all around him. The Christians fought their way through one encirclement after another. The king gave orders that no one should be left behind; the wounded and the sick, even the dead, must be taken along. Those who could not fight must draw their swords, so that the enemy would believe they were capable of fighting. The plains were covered with thistles and brambles inflammable as tinder in that fierce summer. The Turks set fire to the brambles; the Christians were about to be engulfed in the flames when the Archbishop of Nazareth at last raised the jeweled Cross. At that moment the wind changed direction, and now it was the Turks who were in danger of being suffocated and burned. Everyone in the army had a smoke-blackened face.
The nobles thought of suing for peace and even sent an envoy to Unur to ask on what terms he would let them go free. The envoy was killed before he reached Bosra. The Christian army continued to fight its way back to the Sea of Galilee amid daily skirmishes, dust storms, and such broiling heat that the knights had to be prevented from throwing away their coats of mail. Halfway to the Galilee they encountered an unknown knight mounted on a white horse, wearing a breastplate and gauntlets reaching to his elbow, and carrying a scarlet banner. He led them by the shortest routes to water and good campsites. He spoke to no one; he was never seen in the
camp. Every morning he was seen riding the white horse and every evening he brought them to a place where they could pitch their tents. He seemed to be an angel of the Lord sent down to lead them to safety. Was he an angel? Was he an apparition? William of Tyre made inquiries among the survivors of theexpedition and all of them said they saw him, but never knew his name or where he had come from. No one doubted that without his help they would have been destroyed by the Turks, who followed them even when they reached the Decapolis. At last they entered Gadara on the shores of the lake, and on the following day they were in Tiberias.
There the army disbanded, the knights and the foot soldiers returning to their own homes. The king returned to Jerusalem with the jeweled Cross and the archbishop of Nazareth returned to Nazareth. In due course Altuntash, the cause of all this misery, made his way to Damascus in the hope that all would be forgiven him. He was arrested when he entered the city, and thrown into prison. Instead of putting him on trial for treacherous dealings with the Frankish enemy, the officials put him on trial on a lesser charge. Once, during a quarrel, he had put out the eyes of his brother, who now demanded that Altuntash should suffer the appropriate punishment. The family quarrel taking precedence over his treacheries, he was blinded. According to the historian Ibn al-Qalanisi, no further punishment was demanded of him, and he lived out the rest of his life as a private citizen in Damascus.
THE adventure that came to be known as the Second Crusade was another folly. It failed in its undertakings and by its failure added to the prestige of Islam; it came at the wrong time, for the wrong motives, and was led by the wrong people. But it began with high hopes, intense excitement, and a sense of destiny. It was led by two kings. Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany were princes in the grand tradition, possessing gifts of command and organization and a highly developed sense of the operations of government in their own countries. Once they were outside their own countries, their understanding failed them.
Louis VII came to the throne in 1137 at the age of sixteen. He was already married to Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was said of Louis VII that he was “a very Christian king but somewhat simple-minded.” He attended all church ceremonies as though his very life depended on them and seemed more like a priest than a king. He liked to talk familiarly with his subjects and was always gracious and hospitable, though people were aware of a kingly reserve. Eleanor was more ebullient, delighting in dances and frolics, fine clothes and jewels, and all the secular pleasures of the court. Despite their differing temperaments, they were happy with one another. Both were under the tutelage of two singular churchmen who were among the greatest of the century. One was Abbot Suger, who presided over the Abbey Church of Saint-Denis, and the other was Bernard of Clairvaux, the greatest preacher of his time and distantly related to the house of Aquitaine.
Abbot Suger, the son of a serf, was a small man of extraordinary intelligence and great administrative power. Louis VII rarely embarked on any course of action without consulting him. Bernard of Clairvaux had a silver tongue and spoke so well that audiences were spellbound. The richly poetic words that poured out of him apparently without effort seemed divinely inspired. He was now summoning the nations of Europe to join
in a Crusade. On this subject Abbot Suger had his own opinion: at all costs the young king must be prevented from leading a Crusade because it was necessary for him to attend to the affairs of France.
Apparently, Louis VII had not been attending to them very well. He had quarreled with the pope and come under an interdict. This was serious, but even more serious was his quarrel with Count Thibault of Champagne, whose territories he invaded with a large force. He set fire to a castle belonging to the count at Vitry-sur-Marne. The flames spread to the villagers' huts and then to the church where they had taken refuge. The roof collapsed and some thirteen hundred villagers were burned to death. Louis VII said later that the sight of the burning church and the screams of the dying made him a Crusader, for he had brought so much guilt on himself that his only salvation lay in asking for the pardon of Christ at the Holy Sepulchre. He would be more believable if he had not continued to ravage the land of the count with fire and sword for a few more weeks. He led his knights into battle and did much slaughtering of his fellow countrymen. The fighting ended as suddenly as it began. Louis VII fell ill. His illness was aggravated by thundering letters from Bernard of Clairvaux, who warned the king that he would be condemned to everlasting hell if he continued in his behavior. He spoke of the need for penance, and hinted strongly that the proper penance might take the form of a Crusade.
At Christmas, in 1145, Louis VII convoked an assembly of barons at Bourges. He told them that he had decided to take the Cross and wished as many of his barons as possible to follow him, but they remained strangely silent. Louis felt he was being scorned by men who did not realize that the Kingdom of Jerusalem was in danger.
At the end of Lent in the following year, the king convoked another assembly at Vézelay in Burgundy. This time he was accompanied by Bernard of Clairvaux and armed with a bull issued by Pope Eugenius III, exhorting all Christians to take up the Cross. On Palm Sunday the entire population of Vézelay was invited to hear Bernard. The crowds were so numerous that the meeting was held in an open field.
Bernard promised absolution and a heavenly reward to all those who took up the Cross. The crowd clamored for crosses, and when the supply failed, Bernard threw off his gown and asked that crosses be made from it. These badges, worn on the shoulders, were like badges of knighthood which permitted the knight of the faith to enter the New Jerusalem.
Leaving Burgundy, Bernard traveled through Lorraine and Flanders, continually preaching the Crusade. It occurred to him that the Germans, who had so far shown little interest in fighting in the Holy Land, should be introduced to the delights of battling against the infidels. Conrad III promised to lead a German army to the Holy Land in the shortest possible time. But it was not until nearly a year and a half later, in May 1148, that his army finally set out across Hungary to follow the same road which the men
of the First Crusade followed fifty years earlier through Byzantine territory.
Manuel Comnenus, the son of John Comnenus, was now emperor of Byzantium. He was a man with a genuine sympathy and understanding of the West, and he employed Latins in his government. He concealed a ruthless will beneath an exquisite courtesy of manner. When he learned that Conrad's army was committing depradations during its journey through Byzantine territory, the exquisite courtesy gave way to rage. It was too late to send the army back to Germany, and there was nothing to be gained by fighting it. He would let it pass through his territory, give it as little help as possible, and hope for its eventual destruction.
The army of Louis VII came close on the heels of Conrad's army. Both Louis and Conrad professed to despise the Byzantines and thought longingly of sacking Constantinople. Both were greeted with courtesy by Manuel Comnenus. Conrad was the first to pass over into Asia, following the route taken by Godfrey of Bouillon. At Dorylaeum, Conrad's guides deserted him, and the Turks were waiting. Suddenly the Turks were all over them. It was not a battle but a massacre, for the Germans were weary and dispirited after their long march; the Turks were fresh, and their aim was accurate. Conrad lost more than three-quarters of his army. He fought his way back to Nicaea, accusing the Byzantines of deliberately allowing him to enter a trap. In fact the Byzantines had warned him of the danger of crossing Asia Minor diagonally and had urged him to follow the coastal road. The German booty, the slaves and the treasure, were sold in the bazaars of the Near East for many months.
When the French army reached Nicaea, they learned of Conrad's defeat at Dorylaeum. In spite of this reversal, it was decided that the two armies should continue their march, this time along the coastal road, remaining in contact with the Byzantine fleet patroling the seacoast. They reached Ephesus without too much trouble, and there Conrad fell ill. He returned to Constantinople by sea, and Manuel Comnenus, who had some knowledge of medicine, cared for him and restored him to health. The French marched on, increasingly harried by Turks. Two days beyond Laodicea they met their greatest disaster on a pass between the snow-covered mountains that seemed to touch the sky.
Here, Geoffrey of Rancogne and Amadeus of Savoy, the king's uncle, made a fatal error. Instead of halting at the top of the pass according to orders they pitched their tents on the southern slope. They were in command of the vanguard, and it was absolutely necessary that they should keep in touch and be visible to the main army. The Turks, established on the mountaintops, shot arrows down at the Franks on both sides of the mountain; heavy stones and tree trunks followed. Then the Turks descended to cut up the survivors. It was another massacre, with no mercy given. Louis VII was almost killed The historian Odo of Deuil, who
accompanied the expedition, described the king fighting off a crowd of Turks single-handedly on the mountaintop:
During the fighting the king lost his small and famous royal guard, but he remained in good heart and nimbly and courageously scaled the side of the mountain by gripping the tree-roots that God had provided for his safety. The enemy climbed after him, hoping to capture him, and the archers in the distance continued to fire arrows at him. But God willed that his cuirass should protect him from the arrows, and to prevent himself from being captured he defended the crag with his bloody sword, cutting off many heads and hands.