Prince of Legend

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bohemund’s first act was to seek to seal the city, which was difficult, and to keep his preparations from common discussion, which was even harder. If Kerbogha got wind of his intentions he could easily move to counter them and render any exit from the city impossible. That imposed a time constraint as well: to keep matters covert would not last long. Luckily, all the fighting men had weapons that were ready for use; indeed they expected to employ them every day, so they could be left in ignorance until just before the action.

What they lacked was satisfied bellies, but no more so than the small number of mounts he could muster, who were near to being skeletal. His first act, tactfully including the council in the decision, was to make a quick distribution of the available food to both, not enough to remedy weeks of shortage, but one massively more than that to which they had been recently accustomed, which acted upon their spirits as well as their stomachs.

Ever since the departure of William of Grandmesnil and his deserting knights, the walls had been more carefully patrolled as a matter of course, with a system of token checks, on the old Roman model, by section leaders, they visiting each sentry at irregular intervals to ensure those guarding them were both awake and alert, while a captain made flying visits and kept everyone on their toes.

They had added instructions to alert the Turks to any flight by an individual. As a sanction that was made effective by the way the enemy reacted, waiting till daylight and allowing those still inside to watch the skin being stripped off the screaming victims they had intercepted, for, despite every precaution, some still tried.

Every fellow magnate was allotted a role, and despite his earlier demand for sole control it was clear to the Count of Taranto that men would fight better for their liege lord than any other commander; all he asked was that his peers stick to his initial plan and act positively to any instructions he subsequently issued.

It was just as important that the men leading individual companies were made aware of what was required and they were gathered the evening before the plan was to be executed to be made privy to the outline. Looking at them in guttering candlelight Bohemund could see in their eyes what was in every heart including his own: this as an enterprise was likely to be terminal.

If Vermandois was a military ignoramus he was a fiery one, always seeking to initiate a wild charge even when circumstances demanded caution, convinced that in times to come chroniclers of bravery and knightly good conduct would sing of his sterling deeds. One of the attributes of good generalship is the ability to use those gifts possessed by any man you command, even if they are limited. Thus Count Hugh was given the task of driving the Turks away from the Bridge Gate to allow the rest of the crusading host to deploy, for he had the recklessness such a mission required.

Given all of the horses as well as every single man who could use a bow, either mounted or on foot, Bohemund had them crowd behind the barred gate in darkness and in silence so as not to alert the citadel. Behind this body of men the streets and squares were filling up with all the other fighting contingents, every one on foot, all silent and commending their souls to heaven, while the pilgrims prayed for them in the churches and the local Armenians hid and trembled in their cellars.

Somehow Vermandois had got hold of a sleek white horse, albeit also with prominent ribs — he had probably sold the last of his plate to acquire such a beast — and he had upon his surcoat not the Crusader cross but the multi fleur-de-lis device of Clovis, founder of the French Kingdom and his claimed ancestor. His eyes at the final conference, before he donned his helmet, had shone with the prospect of the glory he was sure he was bound to achieve.

Bohemund, who would give the order to attack, looking at him by the light of a single torch in the deep doorway of the palace of the Patriarch of Antioch, wondered if, in his quest for that laurel, he might lead his contingent to an ignominious death. The temptation to speak, to ask Count Hugh to calm himself, was put aside for it would have been pointless; all he could do was follow him to the head of his troops.

The first daylight to touch anything visible lit the huge green flag that flew high above the citadel, hanging limp in the calm of a windless morning. That would begin to lightly flutter as the sun rose over the mountains to the east, its heat stirring the first breeze of the day, while down below it was still in shadow and that was where advantage lay. There would be enough time to commence an attack and enough light, Bohemund had calculated, to press it home before the citadel could sound a trumpet to alert those camped close to the city walls.

Several large Apulian Normans leant their back against the huge wooden gate as the great baulk of timber that barred it was quietly lifted off its cleats. Others stood to each side holding ropes that had been attached to the timbers so that when the two halves were opened it would happen at a speed that would allow for an immediate charge by the horsemen.

Surprise was essential, the timing acute and both had been carefully calculated to gain them the maximum advantage. The Turkish encampments would have just bestirred and they would be deploying for dawn themselves, always the time to protect against sudden attack. Yet light was essential too: Vermandois and his men had to see their targets and the enemy had to observe what was approaching and the speed at which it was closing to be induced, the man in command hoped, to panic.

Bohemund watched as the sun turned the sky from silver to a hint of burnished gold, throwing the shadow of the citadel itself over the higher part of the city. There were two cohorts of Provencal knights up there holding the drystone wall, a couple of hundred men, all that could be spared to mask the fortress — and they should have been led by their liege lord.

Raymond, either through a recurrence of genuine illness or pique, had taken once more to his cot and left one of his vassals to command his men, which was poor behaviour, especially since Bishop Ademar, not in full vigour himself, had decided he too must lead a contingent and fight.

‘May God commend your efforts, Count Hugh,’ Bohemund said quietly, before issuing a louder command that had the gates swung open.

Vermandois let out a piercing yell and spurred his horse as soon as a gap appeared, those behind doing likewise, and the mounted men streamed through the gate to clatter over the arched stone of the bridge, quickly followed by the foot-bound archers. The Turks had a small piquet on the far side, which was ridden over in seconds, and the advance party was out on the open plain to the west of the river, firing arrows at men only halfway through their dawn deployment.

That they were so engaged worked in the Crusaders’ favour, for being loosely bunched they became easier targets for arrows fired by foot-bound knights, many of whom lacked full competence in the use of a bow and arrow. Fortunately the enemy was short on the discipline that comes from being properly formed, so the archers’ inexperience was not exposed.

Just as effective were Vermandois and his mounted fighters, who having emptied their quills proceeded to ride into the enemy ranks with their swords doing great damage, if not by killing, in forcing into flight any body of Muslims that sought to form a defence, they hampered by the fact that much of the forces deployed before the walls could not come to their aid.

It was no mystery to any of the Crusade leaders that Kerbogha’s men suffered from the same constraints that had troubled them during their siege: the deep River Orontes forced those seeking to invest the walls into a dispersed separation in which mutual support was slow to gather, and Bohemund had built this factor into his plan. He needed time to get his entire force deployed and they would have to fight to achieve the position he knew was a minimum, an unbroken line that arced with its back to the Bridge Gate so it could not be outflanked from the north.

Yet it was not a simple affair: to get fifteen thousand men out of one gate was bound to cause crowding and confusion and it was thankful that Vermandois had the sense to split his force, driving the greater part of the Muslim force back toward Kerbogha’s main encampment while allowing the rest to flee south, the smaller body now cut off from a quick retreat and any support by the river. Not that Vermandois could hold, he lacked the numbers, and it was only the arrival of the leading ranks of his northern French knights on foot that gave a tenuous stability to his line.

Men were streaming untidily out and over the arch of the stone bridge, their captains using the flat of their sword blades to try to get them into some form of order. Above their heads the walls were lined with priests in deep prayer, calling to God for aid, while higher still, not in full daylight, a huge black flag with no device flew from the citadel tower, obviously a sign to Kerbogha that the Crusaders had set in motion an attack: to those of a superstitious bent it was of a shade that spoke of imminent death.

Bohemund got out on the Antioch plain on the heels of Vermandois to set up a command post on the small mount that had once housed the siege fort of La Mahomerie. His banner was soon aloft at his back and his eyes straining north to see how quickly Kerbogha would come, worrying that he would do so before he could get what was at present a rabble into place.

The plan was, at this moment, in the balance without that should happen, for the close besiegers, still all Turks by their dress, having been swept from their prepared positions had not panicked and fled but had begun to regroup. They were showing a stiffening resistance which, given their numbers, would soon turn into a dangerous attack difficult to contain.

The northern French were fully engaged and now it was the Lotharingians debouching through the gate, led by an ebullient Godfrey de Bouillon, who went by Bohemund with a cry that ‘By God it was good to see grass again, even if it stinks of Turkish shit’, before turning to berate his men to make haste.

Half a glass of sand must have gone by before the next contingent, the two Roberts of Normandy and Flanders, began to lead out their warriors, followed by Bishop Ademar at the head of the remaining Provencals, in full chain mail and under his blue banner with the device of the Virgin Mary, each party going to the right of those who had preceded it to form a continuous line.

Last out were the Apulians, led by Tancred, who had been held back just in case an attack developed from the citadel and overwhelmed the men set to prevent them interfering in the battle. That would have led to fighting in the streets of the lower town, for the Apulians could not have got up to save the Provencals from annihilation, but better that than those outside should find their own gates closed against them. Tancred’s men gathered around Bohemund’s banner to act as a reserve that could be rushed to plug any gap in the defence.

With the sun full up the Latin forces were fully engaged against those who had been deployed against the walls and doing no more than what had been asked of them, that they hold their ground. When the main part of Kerbogha’s huge force came it was going to be hard, but contain them they must and that needed solid defensive cohesion, not ambition.

The sun rose higher and higher, the heat intensifying until the ground began to shimmer, while before him the line of Crusaders waved in both directions as some advanced and others fell back slightly, both positions reversed over time yet never enough to be a threat to either side.

Of the main Muslim host there was no sign, no telltale cloud of dust that was the mark of a great army on the march, and that held until every faction of the men of Antioch were in place, as well as the supplies of water and the means to deliver them, without which, on a late June day, they would not last. The first part of Bohemund’s plan had succeeded, but where was Kerbogha?

That black banner above the citadel had sent hundreds of horns blowing throughout the main enemy camp as the various contingents got ready to march and soon, rippling with anticipation, they were lined up to do so. That no order came was a surprise and all eyes were aimed across the huge encampment to where flew the standard of their general, wondering when he would give the command to advance and crush these feeble non-believers. Inside the pavilion it was the same; the senior officers watched Kerbogha and wondered what was going through his mind, for he had said little.

Aware that all eyes were upon him Kerbogha showed no sign of anxiety. Before him was a map that told him what position the Crusaders had taken up, whose banner flew in what was obviously the command position, and runners brought him information that suggested they were out in total, that they were being held, yet were maintaining themselves an unbroken line; no threatening advance but no hint of a retreat.

Standing orders to those who masked the St George’s Gate already had them hurrying south to the lower bridge that crossed the Orontes and they would come upon the rear of the Latins, while boats had been provided for the men camped outside the St Paul’s Gate and along the inland riverbank so they could reinforce the men who, originally driven back, had been camped opposite the Bridge Gate. The latter, with more men coming to their aid, would not falter, so he had time to think on the best way to react, for if an immediate frontal advance was the most obvious, it was not the sole option.

‘I sense,’ he said finally, without lifting his head, ‘that you are eager to rush into battle.’

That got a low murmur of agreement.

‘I have years on all of you, and experience too. We are in no peril, my good fellows.’ The call to prayer began to echo through the camp, and that made Kerbogha smile, for the imams would show no concern for anything other than the souls of their flock. ‘Let us say our prayers and then we may have guidance as to how to react.’

In truth the Atabeg of Mosul had concerns, even if they were slight, given the relative numbers: his force was a heterogeneous one, made up of so many tribes and different religious affiliations, albeit they were all Muslims. He had caution about exposing them too quickly to battle. On the way to Antioch he had besieged Edessa and what he had seen there did not fill him with confidence as to how they would perform, added to which this was a host that had never engaged in open combat, an arena so much more open to malign chance than a siege. It was why he had used his Turks as the main weapon — they were fierce warriors by nature and could be relied on to fight well.

Would the Crusaders, upon sight of the whole host moving up, merely fade back behind their walls? Would they hold out against the forces already engaged and at this very moment being substantially reinforced? It was paramount to Kerbogha that this battle, even if it was forced upon him, should be the last fight over Antioch and wholly successful, added to which if there was any reputation to be gained from its fall, then it should be his and his alone, hence his standing instruction to the citadel and Shams ad-Dulauh, repeated by messenger, to stay within their walls.

‘My intention,’ he said, once prayers were over, ‘is to keep the Latins outside the walls and fighting. Our men are holding and will find it possible to continue to do so as their losses are replaced from the other side of the Orontes. We will march, but let some sand run through the glass before we do, for on sight of us our enemies will merely fade away and we will once more face their walls. I want them too weary to retreat with any speed, and even if they try I have issued orders so that they will find they have to fight just to get back to the gate.’

‘Victory will come anyway, My Lord Kerbogha,’ cried one of his senior commanders, a Persian and a reluctant ally. ‘They are starving and our men may die to no purpose.’

The face closed up, what had been a narrow forehead near to disappearing: Kerbogha was not a man who liked his actions or decisions to be questioned. ‘You may die for want of respect.’

That was threat enough to silence the speaker and more than enough to make cautious the others present. Kerbogha’s black eyes swept the room and all dropped their heads enough to avoid contact with his glare. There was no need for him to speak: they would obey his commands whenever he chose to issue them.

‘Keep the host at readiness and I will give the order to march when I think the time is right.’

Standing on his slight mound, with the baking sun making both his helmet and his mail hard to bear, Bohemund was lost in confusion and racking his brain to think if there was some way Kerbogha could outmanoeuvre him. The Atabeg had to stay this side of the Orontes; he could not get at the Crusaders by any other means and if he tried a long flank march to the west it would take him time and could not be kept from being observed. In that event Bohemund would swing his line to face it, an option open to him in an interior position. As long as he held the Bridge Gate he held the ability to withdraw at will, not that he would order that unless the battle was well and truly lost.

Several times he had been obliged to send forward Tancred at the head of a strong party of Apulians to straighten a deep kink in the Christian line, and on one occasion he had withdrawn some of Vermandois’ men and replaced them to give them some respite, they having been fighting the longest. It was a mark of their ability and morale that they took this amiss and were keen to resume their place as soon as a lull in the fighting made this possible.

And pauses there were; for all their martial prowess, and the Turks could hold their head for valour with any Christian, no man could keep fighting at full tilt for several hours under a hot sun. Respite came when an enemy fell back to regroup, a slight suspension but enough to take on a drink of water, to mop the streaming sweat from their brows, to look their opponents in the eye before one or the other rushed forward to re-engage.

Yet such breathers happened in parts of the line not the whole, so the air was never free of the clash of weapons and the cries of men, either to give force to their efforts or to react to a painful blow, added to that endless loud pleas to saints or the paladins of the Muslim religion for succour and strength.

A careful eye was kept on the various banners, for it was important that they held steady. If the army of which Bohemund had been given temporary command was fighting for its life and its faith, it was those fellow magnates of his who could inspire their efforts by both their personal example and the ability they had to encourage by word and deed.

‘Lord Bohemund, the Turks from the St George’s Gate have crossed the river over the southern bridge and are coming up on our rear.’

That got a nod; one of the lesser gates and the furthest south, the numbers there had not been great, some five hundred men who could not defeat the Crusaders but could, by their actions and if their timing was right, cause serious problems, for they were as a body mounted on swift ponies. He looked over to the group of mounted French knights, part of those who had first exited the Bridge Gate under Vermandois, standing by their horses, holding their heads tight so they could not graze or drink too much: a horse with a full belly was of no use in a fight.

‘Who has Count Hugh left in command over there?’

‘Reinhard of Toul,’ Tancred replied, ‘in the service of France. Shall I call him to you?’

‘No,’ Bohemund replied with a smile, ‘it is only fitting I go to him. Keep your eye on our front, Tancred and act to provide support as you see fit.’

Reinhard pulled himself to his full height when Bohemund approached, for here was a fighter of legend. The Count of Taranto was a man with whom he had enjoyed little contact and he knew, because he had heard it spoken, of his liege lord’s less than sterling view of the Apulian, but since he did not much admire Count Hugh he discounted his opinion. Looking up and blinking at the sky — there was no choice with such a giant — he nodded as his instructions were relayed, based on the notion that Kerbogha would have given the commander at the southernmost gate certain instructions in the event of a full-blooded sortie from within the walls.

‘They will not attack us unless we are so pressed they have little fear of taking on a superior force. But if matters become critical they will try to cut off what they see as our line of retreat.’

‘Little do they know it is not one we will choose to take.’

Bohemund smiled at Reinhard then; here was a knight with no illusions about their fate should they fail and one who intended to die in battle, not as a slave.

‘They must be stopped before they can get close enough to affect matters, and if we lose every horse and every man in achieving that then that is a price that must be paid. We cannot have mounted men attacking our rear, even in small numbers, while we are fully engaged and in a struggle for survival to the front, for they will wreak havoc.’

To a knight of much experience that required no further explanation: it was not numbers that mattered but the effect such a sight would have on those struggling to hold the line against Kerbogha’s host. Men would be bound to turn away from their primary duty to fend off an attack by a man on horseback, especially archers, and that would give a chance for the Turks to break through any gap created in the front line.

‘These mounts are not fit for the kind of fight I must engage in, My Lord. One charge and they will be spent. And then there are the numbers — we are too few.’

‘I will detach some milities to go with you, Reinhard; let the foot soldiers take the bulk of the action and reserve your cavalry till the last. And know this, as much as I do myself, you hold the fate of all of our confreres in your hands. If you fail to stop those coming up from the south and they interfere when we face the whole might of Kerbogha, we cannot hold.’

‘It would not wound my pride if you were to give the command to another.’

Bohemund knew that was not fear: Reinhard was telling him he would happily serve under a knight more senior and of greater experience than himself. The widening of the smile was as reassuring as the words.

‘We are all captains today, Reinhard, or even generals. You will do as well as anyone, of that I am sure.’

‘Thank you, My Lord.’

That got him a slap on the shoulder. ‘Make the King of France proud so that, even if he is not present, he will hear of your valour and praise you.’