Prince of Legend

CHAPTER NINETEEN

News travelled swiftly in both directions by sea and the arrival of Raymond on the coast was known to Bohemund and his fellow nobles within days, soon followed by the successes he had enjoyed in subduing the nearby enclaves, which seemed to them remarkably similar in territorial ambition to that which he had previously sought to achieve at Albara and Ma’arrat, as well as on the Jabal as-Summaq.

This was especially deduced since no word came from the Count of Toulouse himself seeking that they rejoin the march on Jerusalem, not that they would have obliged him, being busy themselves in securing Northern Syria and still, as they had been at the turn of the year, unwilling to accede a claim to leadership yet to be set aside.

Nor did it seem, in Raymond’s camp, that there was any urgent intention to do that either, for he had found a way of filling his coffers, always with Toulouse a pressing concern, by squeezing tribute out of the towns north and south of Tripoli to add to that which he was receiving from that city and its emir.

If there was avarice in this there was an absence of greed in the host: what monies came in were placed in a central fund prior to distribution, Normandy and Tancred naturally receiving the shares due to their standing, money going to every lance and foot soldier, with even enough spent to feed the pilgrims.

If such delay in the Crusade frustrated the Duke of Normandy, he was mollified by the amounts of money he received, so great as to promise he could acquire enough over time to pay off his mortgage to his brother, King William, and recover his territories.

It was less so for Tancred, who felt he had sacrificed much in the way of family loyalty to get to Palestine. He chafed at the lack of progress but was aware that his status as the most junior of the lords left him little room to challenge the policy adopted. He too reckoned Raymond to be on a quest for territory, an attempt to set up, not unlike his uncle, a fiefdom for himself that would rival Antioch.

The strands of what happened next were hard to fix. Partly it was the desire of the Emir of Tripoli to divert the Crusaders away from his city; partly that Raymond had no immediate goal in sight and an army at danger of being idle, always dangerous to its long-term capability and morale. The Emir hinted at a great payment to be made if the Count subdued the rival inland city of Arqa, ruled, much to his chagrin, by an assembly of its citizens and a commercial rival to dent Tripoli’s income.

This played upon Raymond’s greedy territorial instincts, given it was an important trading centre full of fat merchants, a link to the north that might hamper communications and a fortress of some strength which, if held, would allow him increasing dominance of the region; the fall of such a city would also bring in more tribute from those who feared the same fate.

What tipped the balance was not the pleas of the Emir, but the refusal of the citizens of Arqa to not only surrender their city but also to pay heavily for the privilege of having Raymond’s garrison lord it over them. Always at risk of allowing his pride to override his judgement, such a refusal, coming on the back of so many others having acquiesced, sent the overly conceited Count into one of those passions from which actions sprung regardless of wisdom.

Arqa would feel his wrath, he insisted, this justified to his confreres by the intimation that to allow such an insult to pass would embolden others, even perhaps Tripoli, to do likewise, thus drying up the stream of gold filling their coffers.

So the horns blew and northward marched the best part of the host — a good number had been left behind to keep Tripoli in check — buoyant in the mass as was their leader in his breast until they came upon Arqa, white-walled and sat atop a slight atoll, every bit as formidable to the eye as it had been reported to the ear.

Fully expecting the sight of his army to bring about that which verbal thunderbolts had failed to achieve, he was even more deeply offended when the leading citizens of Arqa, with utter disdain for his rank and his fame, made him aware of their determination to resist by laughing in his face.

‘This is fruitless,’ Tancred snapped to Normandy when the result of the parley became known. ‘Arqa lies in the opposite direction to that which we should be travelling.’

For once the Duke was not placatory, a habit he had formed since Ma’arrat to meet the passions of his younger confrere, who was often irritated by Raymond’s pretensions as well as his actions, while being unable to be too open about it with the man himself.

Normandy normally suffered from this too, but not now, which, to Tancred’s mind, showed just how much that stream of gold had affected his thinking. ‘Then march on north and tell your Uncle Bohemund and those who support him to join us.’

‘Would such a move detach Toulouse from this foolish diversion?’

‘Nothing other than that will.’

‘Well, if Raymond commands an Apulian attack on those walls I will hesitate to obey. I will not set my lances forward as an offering to his pride and see them bleed for it.’

‘What makes you think he will ask?’ Normandy snapped. ‘This is a fortress on which he will want to stamp his own name.’

It was an expansive Raymond who dined with them that night, his talk full with boasts of the speed with which he would subdue Arqa. Such comments were received with little in the way of challenge, for even if Tancred thought the enterprise imprudent he expected that as a siege it would not be one of long duration; with luck he and his Apulians would have no participation at all.

Easy conquests had clouded the judgement for them all: a look at Arqa should have alerted them to some of its advantages, the first of which came on the primary assault, in which they discovered that the defenders had several huge catapults, mounted on platforms set well behind the parapet, that could bombard them with a spray of large rocks before they ever got close to the walls, deadly missiles that no shield or mail could withstand.

Even if he had had the presence of the English carpenters to build a siege tower — and Raymond did not, for they had returned to Antioch — he would have been unable to employ one. Sitting as it did on an all-round incline, Arqa made such a weapon flawed, for to get it up the slope with such weight was beyond the strength of man, and even if it were not, the likelihood of it toppling backwards was too high to be risked.

Moving away from the area covered by the catapults offered the best chance of a successful assault, albeit that with nothing but ladders it would be difficult. Leading that assault himself Raymond once more came close to death — he lost two of his own familia knights — as rocks rained down on them well short of their goal. The suspicion that the defenders had endless catapults proved to be false; what they had were machines easy to break up and reassemble, as well as sighting positions on all four sides of the city to employ them.

The next option chosen, a bombardment screen, took time to construct, though sporadic attacks were maintained to keep the defenders occupied and tire them out, the concomitant of that being the same effect on the Crusaders and to that was added an unusual level of casualties. Worse still, the men suffering the most were the influential captains who led from the very front by example. To see their leaders struck down and killed by those flying rocks was enough to annul the attempt to even raise a ladder.

When the bombardment screen was ready, hopes rose that sapping could bring down the walls. Cheers greeted the assembly as it moved forward, more when catapulted rocks bounced off its sloped roof, for it had been made extra strong with those in mind. Slowly, for it was heavy, it inched towards those white walls until it was firmly placed against them and the diggers could get to work with their picks and shovels.

The contraption that appeared above the screen excited comment but no fear, a thick wooden frame with what seemed like pulleys attached to the top of it, the curiosity aroused doubled by the way the defenders began to knock away some of their own battlement crenellations to create a gap. Next, there were men lined up on either side and even at a distance the Crusaders could hear the shouts that indicated the calls needed to move a heavy object.

When what those men were lifting appeared it caused gasps, for its purpose was obvious. Eased up to the level of the gap in the wall, it was a massive round rock in a cradle of ropes that was soon being pushed outwards; indeed the whole pulley structure was now leaning towards the attackers at an angle that increased with agonising slowness. Eyes were on Raymond of Toulouse now, wondering what he would do, let his diggers continue or call off both them and the screen; he chose the former.

When the huge rock was finally pitched over, more by its own weight than any pressure from those pushing, it seemed to roll downwards at no pace at all in the minds of those watching. But when it struck the wails were loud, for it smashed through the roof of the screen as if it were mere bark, sending great splinters of wood in all directions, worse still carrying on to crush those sappers, who of necessity were right up against the base carrying out the task.

Few of them survived, for the place from which it had been pitched lay right above their heads, the foremost point of the screen roof. Many of those who had helped to get it into place, the men who had built it, perished too from being felled by their own handiwork, those that did not subjected to a hail of lances then arrows as they fled.

If the news of the Latins being held up outside Arqa was not helpful, the stories of such stunning reversals as the destruction of the bombardment screen began to act upon the minds of those who were feeding their coffers. Tripoli in particular, according to Raymond Pilet, the man Toulouse had left to mask it, was showing signs of unrest, with soldiers being hissed at in the streets when they ventured into the markets to buy food and a couple even suffering an assault.

‘Such things would not happen, My Lord,’ Pilet insisted, ‘without the Emir being aware of it.’

‘Then perhaps it is time to remind him what he might have faced if he had not offered us treaty.’

‘Perhaps you should command he attend upon you?’ Normandy suggested.

‘I think, My Lord Duke, that the Emir will pay more attention to a touch of bloodletting, perhaps even some of his own.’

‘The threat of that should suffice,’ Tancred added, ‘for if there is resistance we will find ourselves fighting in two places simultaneously.’

‘I will decide the merits of that,’ Raymond barked, with a startling lack of courtesy.

‘Do not allow our reverses here to cloud your judgement, My Lord.’

Raymond’s reaction proved that what Tancred surmised was correct — that he was losing his grip — for he lost his temper completely then. ‘Do not presume to cast your opinion on my judgement. Remember who leads here.’

Tancred had to work to keep his response calm. ‘If I did not fear to ask questions of Count Bohemund I will not fear to do so of you.’

It was the wrong name to use; if Tancred had harboured any hope of diverting Raymond from his bloodletting it went with the mention of his sworn enemy. In an insult that was all the greater for being silent, he turned his back on Tancred and ordered Pilet to take his men into Tripoli and show these infidels the wrath a Christian God could mete out to them.

‘And remember you are not Apulians, act like the men you are, of Provence!’

The reason for the Emir’s early offer of peace soon became apparent; he ruled in a place not much threatened for many a long year, this under the umbrella of light Turkish rule, which had existed on the same payments as he was now making towards the Latins. He had few men trained to fight and added to that his gates were open to these devils, who entered in small groups to allay suspicion before setting about their task.

Any armed defenders were quickly despatched, which allowed Pilet and his men to go on a bloody rampage unhindered by any threat to themselves, this watched from his fortified palace overlooking the Mediterranean by the ruler who knew that to step outside his walls would probably result in death. Not that the heavy palace gates he had were enough of a defence even if he stayed inside; for that reason a boat was sitting by the watergate to carry him away if he was threatened.

What saved him from flight was a combination of weariness on the part of the attackers and an emissary prepared to sacrifice his life. He found Pilet and persuaded him to desist in lieu of a gift of a chest of gold coins. Raymond’s man knew his master; while accepting the bribe for himself and his men, he also insisted on increased tribute to the Count of Toulouse, a dilemma the Emir resolved by demanding payments from the merchants of the port. Thus the message went out to the other towns that paid a levy, all of whom immediately sent more gifts to ensure their continued safety.

If that solved one problem it did not address the real issue, which was Jerusalem, for Raymond was once more coming under pressure from the pilgrims to act, a desire he could not meet while locked into a siege he could not abandon for the loss of face that would ensue. Nagging most vociferously and using his position as the man who found the Holy Lance, was Peter Bartholomew, who to Raymond’s mind was growing more arrogant by the day.

‘He has the heart of the rabble, which you used to own.’

Peter of Narbonne had been given the See of Albara in place of destroyed Ma’arrat an-Numan. Divine he might be but still he got a jaundiced look, though Raymond said nothing in reply, for there was no gainsaying the truth of it. If he could sometimes ignore the views of his equals, he found it hard to do so with the pilgrims, for he craved their good opinion as a bolster against the low esteem in which he was held by his fellow princes; it rankled that he could only get support, and that partial, by the buying of it.

‘You know why I cannot leave here.’

Narbonne knew he did not mean Arqa but the region itself, without he had the support of the rest of the Crusaders, and even with that he would be loath to move on. To do so, against the unbroken force of Vizier al-Afdal holding Jerusalem, would be to risk annihilation for his fighters and his pilgrims.

‘I have a notion of how to get the support you need.’

There was little need to ask for permission to proceed, the eagerness to hear anything that would break the deadlock was obviously welcome.

‘I fear that to detach Bohemund from Antioch is a lost cause.’ That got a glare for stating the very obvious, which Narbonne ignored. ‘But I see in Duke Godfrey a man of different motives.’

‘He is no better than his brother Baldwin.’

It was an indication of the state to which the morale of Toulouse had shrunk that Narbonne felt able to question that statement and in doing so he reprised the opinion all had held of Godfrey de Bouillon, that he was a good man whose only concern was that the Crusade should get to and capture Jerusalem.

‘Then tell me, clever Peter, why is he not here?’

To say ‘because of your pride and past behaviour’ was possible, but unsafe for a man who, bishop or not, owed all he had to the Count. Instead he managed, with a careful shrug, to let the reasons be set aside.

‘I think if he felt the whole endeavour to be at risk he would drop his reservations …’

The last word was enough for Raymond to shout to the heavens, and ask his God to give him strength.

‘What united us more than any other event, My Lord?’ Peter did not wait for a response but hurried on. ‘Was it not the prospect of losing everything, our lives as well as our cause?’

Narbonne had to be careful then; he could not allude to the Battle of Antioch without reminding Toulouse of the way he had behaved in taking to his bed, which was far from glorious. ‘What if the likes of Duke Godfrey felt that such a threat existed once more?’

‘But it does not.’

‘Godfrey does not know that. If he fears it to be true, I would suggest that he, and the Count of Flanders, will hurry to aid you lest by the loss of the army you lead they lose the chance of Jerusalem too. No more than you, My Lord, can they contemplate a move on the Holy City with only their own lances. My notion is to relay to them that there is another Turkish host preparing to descend on you and relieve Arqa, that without they come to your aid all their own hopes for Jerusalem will be dashed.’

Toulouse sighed, evidence that he was far from convinced. ‘Trust a man of the church to think with such a devious mind.’

‘I think only of what might reignite the Holy Crusade, which surely must be foremost in the mind of a cleric.’

‘Who would you send?’

Narbonne allowed himself a sly smile. ‘A churchman, who else, My Lord?’

Narbonne found Godfrey de Bouillon and Flanders besieging a town called Jabala, well to the south of Antioch, where they had been joined by a new Crusader prince and a long and seasoned campaigner, Gaston of Bearn, though they had lost the support of Bohemund who had returned to Antioch.

That was a city still with a future undecided, given there was no sign of the Emperor Alexius and his army, just a written demand that it be respected as a Byzantine fief, a message Bohemund could safely ignore; nothing short of a main force would shift him.

Given the news that Narbonne brought, it was far from surprising that these princes were alarmed and to that he added, even if it had not been discussed with the Count of Toulouse, that his master was no longer seeking leadership of the whole Crusade, so great was the threat from eastern Syria.

If they were as proud as Toulouse, Godfrey and Flanders perhaps had more sense. With what they were being told the reasons for delay had been removed; an immediate truce was agreed with their adversary in Jabala and they prepared to march south. Of the entire host Godfrey was the happiest, never having been comfortable with the rupture.

Only when they arrived at Arqa did they discover the threat to be at best a chimera, at worst a downright invention, the latter notion doing nothing for Raymond’s standing and one which destroyed for ever his leadership ambitions, this time not among the princes but in the hearts of the whole non-Provencal fighting element of the host.

What did elevate him, even in the eyes of pious Godfrey de Bouillon, was the sheer amount of money pouring into the Crusaders’ coffers from all over the land, not to mention horses, mules and endless amphorae of wine. Every one-time satrap of the Turk was keen to be on good terms with the reunited Crusade, the new power in the land.

Only Tancred had a jaundiced view of their motives. ‘They wish us gone, and there is no amount of gold, food and horses they will not part with to see our backs.’