Soldier of Crusade

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Back in the camp outside Nicaea — the city and its churches was still barred to them except in small groups — the Council of Princes debated the next stage of their campaign, and some of the constraints which had applied to the previous endeavours existed now. In fact the problem was greater, for supply from Constantinople, either by sea or land, became increasingly difficult to maintain the further south they moved. Their numbers had previously dictated that they marched to Nicaea in separate units to avoid so stripping the land they passed through, for it would not support the whole.

Now at full strength and with a tail of camp-follower pilgrims that was made worse, even if the line of march, at least in its original phase, took them through very fertile country, but even the best of Anatolia could not feed a host which numbered in total seventy thousand mouths that arrived without warning. Foraging would be required, but more vital was to alert a wide area of the country that there was a passing market, and one with deep pockets for their excess produce, if they cared to make their way towards the line of march.

‘We dare not be so broken up as we were coming here.’ Godfrey de Bouillon stated this as though he expected it to be disputed, legs spread apart, his barrel chest thrust out and with it his jaw. ‘We have driven Kilij Arslan off but that does not mean he will lie low like a dog and give us free passage.’

Bohemund permitted himself only a hint of a smile; de Bouillon was right, but would he ever acknowledge that he bore the responsibility for that situation, given his failure to control his lances in the first battle? Judging by his appearance the answer was no, and looking around the others there seemed no one, judging by their faces, who thought as he did.

‘We cannot do as we did before,’ insisted Raymond. ‘In individual units we will be too small and vulnerable.’

‘Added to which we have thousands of pilgrims.’

Ademar got a response that displeased him from Vermandois and standing behind him the Constable of France. ‘I would leave them behind, let them make their own way to Jerusalem.’

‘You would see them massacred, Count Hugh?’

‘By whom?’ Vermandois responded. ‘We have given the Turks such a bloody nose I doubt we’ll see sight of them between here and Syria.’

That, which flew in the face of everything that had just been said by the likes of Raymond and Godfrey, taxed the Bishop’s seeming endless depths of patience and he sounded more irritated than he had ever allowed himself to be up till now, partly, Bohemund suspected, because when he spoke those words Vermandois had adopted a look of such arrogant indifference.

‘They require our protection, and it is no less than our Christian duty to provide it to them. It seems you would throw them to the wolves, Count Hugh.’

‘I would not see them harmed,’ the Frenchman insisted, looking around as if he had somehow been traduced. ‘But they complicate our passage. If they travel separately they will not want for protection even if Kilij Arslan can create another army to replace the one we have destroyed. Good sense tells me that he must deal with us first and that is another battle he will lose.’

‘It has been my experience,’ Bohemund cut in, with much emphasis on the last word, ‘that when neighbours are threatened they tend to combine, in order to avoid being defeated piecemeal.’

‘We should fear the Danishmends?’ asked Robert of Normandy.

‘Let us say we must be aware of them, for they are as numerous as the tribe led by Arslan and are his neighbours and fellow infidels.’

‘As well as bitter enemies,’ Vermandois said.

‘Even bitter enemies sometimes come together. Let us remind ourselves that we did not destroy him, we merely put him to flight, and he will desperately want back what he had. This tells me he will pay a high price to get it, even by making peace with the Danishmends. But I would caution also that there are many other Seljuk tribes between us and the Euphrates, and if we are seen as instruments of Byzantium they will perceive that as a threat to them all and combine.’

‘They would be wise to fight us before we got to Antioch,’ de Bouillon suggested.

‘Which is not yet threatened,’ Raymond reminded him. ‘It is many leagues distant.’

‘They will have word from Byzantium of where we are headed, which in any case is not secret. As to our strengths and weaknesses, not all the mercenaries Alexius employs will be loyal to him, given too many are Turks or half-breeds.’

This Frankish conversation was being quietly translated for Tacitus; those words of Godfrey de Bouillon got the Duke of Lower Lorraine a filthy look that went right over his head, he being unaware of the insult.

‘The decision we must make is this: can we march as a single body?’ Ademar asked, nailing the important point. ‘And if we cannot, how are we going to divide the host and into how many parts?’

‘No is my answer to your first question,’ Bohemund replied, a response that was backed up by the shaken heads of all the other magnates. ‘Yet My Lord of Toulouse is right, we must be strong enough to battle if it is forced upon us.’

‘Provided we do not have too much distance between us we can be as good as one.’

‘Which obliges me to add that from Nicaea onwards we will not have the road we enjoyed previously, so rapid movement will not be possible. According to Alexius it is still a route, but one in which the old Roman Road only shows in very few places. Nor will we have the supplies in the quantity we require, which means we cannot just rely on forage and greedy peasant farmers. We must take with us food on the hoof and use the spare horses, oxen and donkeys as beasts of burden.’

After much discussion and several discarded suggestions it was decided that safety lay in numbers but the host could split in two and still be secure. Contact should be maintained and they should never be so far apart as to be unable to offer mutual support. The destination, where they would once more become complete, was an old Byzantine military camp at Dorylaeum, where there was ample water and pasture as well as a large farming quarter in the surrounding countryside.

The Normans, both contingents, would take the lead with half the pilgrims and camp followers, the rest coming on actually under Raymond, though pride was assuaged with the other princes by naming the titular leader as Ademar. Bohemund and Duke Robert exchanged a look then that might presage difficulties, for they had not, up till now, appeared to be natural bedfellows.

‘I think he worries about acting in concert with me. Robert, with his title, sees himself as suzerain to anyone named de Hauteville and every Norman lance we lead, while he knows that it is not a condition I accept and that could lead to dispute.’

‘And will it?’ his nephew asked.

‘I will try very hard to make it congenial. Nothing has changed, for in the end we will be as one again and all the complications of that will resurface. Little will be achieved by making enemies.’ That was followed by a wry smile. ‘And Normans are the worst to have.’

‘And who does Tacitus march with?’

‘Ademar, and it is my guess he will be bringing up the rear.’

‘I long to see these Byzantines actually fight.’

‘It would not be a thing to hold your breath upon.’

In that Bohemund was mistaken; if they had been supine at Nicaea they were the opposite now. In order that imperial rights should be respected and protected, especially any towns they passed or captured, Alexius had ordered his Prostrator Tacitus to advance with the very front elements of the Crusaders, in fact to take the lead and command, which also underlined their vow of service to him.

As soon as the forward element parted company with their confreres it was made plain to Tacitus that his position was one of advisor, not leader; neither of the Norman magnates had any intention of being led by a Byzantine, however highly he was regarded by his Emperor, and pressing home that agreement went some way to help them warm to each other.

The Norman host was in excess of fifteen thousand strong and half that number again would come on in the second wave, both a mass of mounted knights, who would lead their animals at least half of each day’s progress, as well as the foot-bound milities, and, combined, the fighting elements made up two-thirds of the entire body. The rest — the pilgrims, and the camp followers attracted to any fighting force — straggled along in their wake led by a restored Peter the Hermit, either walking like him or, if they were of the wealthier kind, bestride an ass, creating a huge cloud of dust that rose to choke anyone not out to the front, which included Tancred, in command of the powerful rearguard.

With so many animals — each knight required three: one to ride, another to carry his equipment, clothing and personal stores and lastly his destrier — water was the paramount concern and that applied as much to an ox as an ass and to a pilgrim as much as a duke. Fortunately the lands of this part of Anatolia were well watered from the various mountain ranges that dotted the landscape, with peaks that in winter all held falls of snow, and these were melting to feed the rivers. They were traversing this fecund agricultural land at no great pace, passing alongside fields full of crops to purchase, so that the march, covering no more than ten leagues a day, dust notwithstanding, had a carnival air.

Out in front Robert of Normandy and Bohemund rode side by side with Tacitus, who was, as usual, not much given to communication. After an initial display of reserve it quickly became obvious that the two leaders had more in common than what might separate them. Away from the Council of Princes, Robert was a more congenial person by far, aware of the dangers of dissension and determined not to raise any hackles, so they soon fell to discussing the various things that troubled their life, both of which revolved around family.

‘I would be at peace with William,’ Robert said, referring to his brother, ‘for I am content with what my father left me. He is not — even if I have given him my bounden oath not to attempt anything in England.’

‘He wants everything?’

Robert smiled. ‘Just as I am told do you.’

‘I admit to wanting what should be mine by right.’

‘I have been told of the nature of the man who prevents you.’

‘Not Borsa,’ Bohemund snarled.

‘No, the Great Count.’

That was acknowledged but with a shaking head. ‘If I knew the true reason why my Uncle Roger acts as he does I might be more content. Is it for an oath he swore to my father or a wily way to suit his own purpose?’

‘Have you asked him?’

Bohemund shrugged and produced a grin. ‘You will find, Duke Robert, that to ask a direct question of a de Hauteville does not get you a straight answer.’

Robert laughed. ‘Then Italy has not sapped your Norman spirit.’

The easy talk continued at night, when the camp was set up, joined by Tancred, Robert of Salerno and many of the Duke’s captains. Old campaigns were discussed, north and south — how Robert’s father had subdued much of England by torching the country, especially the north, which was held by those listening to be a proper way to control a recalcitrant Anglo-Saxon populace and their rebellious carls.

Talk of family was again to the fore, for Normandy was troubled not only by William Rufus but also the Conqueror’s youngest son Henry, even more implacably opposed to the Duke of Normandy than his sibling monarch. Then there were the Norman nobles who betrayed him one day to side with his brother, only to offer allegiance the next so he could never engage in combat and have any assurance of full support. He had already been captured once and imprisoned, forced to cede his inherited English domains to buy his release, and his tone left no one in any doubt he was sick of it.

The de Hauteville story was different. A lack of opportunity had brought them to Italy where William, the eldest, had shown great fighting and tactical quality to become the right-hand man to a powerful Norman magnate called Rainulf of Aversa, only to sense himself betrayed once he had aided Rainulf to recognition of the title of count. That had led to the near impregnable Castle of Melfi and a commitment to aid the Lombards against their Byzantine masters. William soon discerned that they were too untrustworthy to rule themselves, any one of a number of princes who rose to prominence seemingly ever ready to surrender leadership and the possibility of a kingly title for Byzantine gold.

So the de Hauteville brothers, now five in number, carved out a fief for themselves through their combat skills, first on the old Roman battlefield of Cannae, where William had done to the Eastern Empire what Hannibal had done to the Roman legions in antiquity. Much fighting followed across the whole of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily over four decades, de Hautevilles dying from age and the secret knife, to be succeeded by the next brother in line who could hold the Normans as one.

Byzantium suffered defeat at their hands everywhere until only Bari stood against them and that had fallen to the genius of the Guiscard. Not that he had enjoyed peace; plagued as he was by constant rebellion as well as a combination of all the princes of Northern Italy, arrayed against him under the banner of Pope Urban’s predecessor. The fiery and intemperate prelate called Hildebrand, known to posterity as Gregory VII, hated the Normans and wished them gone. In defeating him and his combined forces Robert de Hauteville had been granted the full ducal rights, now held by Borsa, by papal decree.

It was easy to discuss with Robert the dispute Bohemund had with his half-brother, given his own sire had been born out of wedlock. Also there was much that did not require to be said, for these were men who lived in a world where much changed decade by decade and no lord was ever secure. If his sword could not hold them another would take his possessions. Robert’s father William had come to the title aged just seven, the grandfather after who he was named having died on this very pilgrimage, and he had been required to fight hard to keep his inheritance, many times coming close to losing his life and his duchy.

Bohemund, having been born in Italy, knew from whence the family came and he saw it as a loss to have no actual knowledge of the Contentin, given he felt an umbilical connection to his heritage. To satisfy his curiosity Robert, who had been in those parts, was happy to describe the sea-battered shore and the rainwashed landscape of small fields and parlous demesnes of the region, perhaps the poorest part of his domains, yet fertile nevertheless. It had to be — Bohemund’s grandfather on one such property had brought up a family of twelve sons and two daughters.

‘They still talk of old Tancred in those parts,’ Robert chuckled, with a nod to his young namesake, ‘for he led those who saw themselves as his superiors a merry dance.’

‘I was told he was minded to give them a drubbing from time to time.’

‘That too.’

Over days they went from being guarded to find such commonality as to become, if not friends, at ease in each other’s company. They had much in common being Normans and little to separate them that was not geographical, added to which they had both been sired by men not only potent but remarkable. Robert was as curious about the Guiscard as was Bohemund about the Conqueror and each of those had tales attached to their names that would keep talk going for a month.

‘God forbid they should ever have met,’ Robert said, with an accompanying laugh, his eyes raised to the clear, blue afternoon sky — it had been that way the whole day’s march. ‘Something tells me they would not have loved one another.’

‘I cannot see my father bending the knee, even if he ever insisted that he was a true Norman.’

‘And you, Bohemund, are you that too?’

‘On both sides, Duke Robert, but I am as proud as my father when it comes to acknowledging a superior.’

‘Never fear, Count Bohemund, I am not inclined to put such a thing to the test.’

A stirring to the rear of the host took their attention and both knew it came from the herd of spare mounts, these their shared property, part of their obligation as leaders. It was their responsibility, if one of their knights lost a horse in battle, to provide him with a replacement mount and right now the drovers in control of them were experiencing difficulties, which meant that over the horizon ahead and not very far there was another flowing river, something an equine could sense well before a human.

‘A good place to camp,’ Robert suggested, the sun being well past the meridian.

As a courtesy, Tacitus was consulted, Bohemund using Greek, and he grunted his agreement.

Almost as soon as they crossed the river next morning a horseman of the screening cavalry, sent out predawn, came back to report the presence of Turks, though not in any great numbers. There was no need to enquire what possibly lay behind that sighting. But these knights would carry out the task they were given and properly, so if the host was threatened they would be forewarned. This did not seem to qualify as that; it did, however, have to be thought on and, given the triple leadership, discussed.

‘A raiding party,’ Robert suggested, ‘come to steal from our column.’

His interpreter dragged, ‘Most likely,’ out of Tacitus and Bohemund agreed.

Looking back to where they had crossed the river, less than half the host was on this side, the remainder patiently crowding the opposite bank, while ahead of them was open plain, a dangerous place to be, given there was no way to create a protected flank. Against that, stopping to fully assess any risk seemed an overreaction. Yet if there were raiders in the vicinity, this host and what they carried had to be the objective, which meant lightning raids, probably by archers, which would need to be rebuffed.

Another quick consultation with Tacitus followed and then orders went out for the knights, hitherto travelling in leather jerkins, some in only linen given that it was a hot day, to don their mail and Bohemund and Robert did likewise. If it would be uncomfortable it would render the lances near impervious to arrows, and they were also told to spread out through the entire host in order to provide protection.

‘Do we alert Ademar?’ Robert asked, then answered his own question. ‘We would need more of a threat, I think.’

‘We should move on?’ Bohemund said, looking at his co-leader and receiving a nod, then he gave orders to the scout, who was Apulian. ‘Go back to your task.’

Nothing occurred that day or the next to disturb their progress and no alarms came from the cavalry screen so spirits remained high; they would reach the old Byzantine camp before the sun went down if the march went well, the only obstacles the endless small rivers, which imposed a check as everyone and every beast took in water. The animals did this downriver of the humans and strict instructions were relayed to the non-combatants — the soldiers knew better — not to use the river as a latrine. For that, on what they hoped was the last crossing, there was a marsh nearby.

Having just resumed progress, the trio of leaders saw the cavalry screen coming in at full gallop, which could only mean one thing: real danger threatened. Ahead of them, bounded by sloping hills, there was a junction to two valleys, seemingly empty when they first looked. They did not long stay that way; with what seemed no more than a blink the ground was filled with mounted men who could only be Turks and more began to cover the hillsides, which meant the leading elements were not alone in catching sight of this mass of warriors.

News rippled back through the host and when it came to the attention of the pilgrims it caused panic, understandable from people who feared another massacre like the one visited upon the People’s Crusade, and if they needed reminding, there, at the head of their multitude, was Peter the Hermit. Men, women, children and their animals began to mill about in confusion, this while Bohemund and Robert watched as what had been a substantial force before them became a multitude and one coming on without anyone seeming to be in control, seeking, by sheer speed and pressure to crush what lay before them.

No great genius was required to calculate they were outnumbered; Kilij Arslan had made peace with someone, probably the Danishmends, yet it mattered not who they were, more important was the sheer size of their combined force. Tacitus immediately swung his mount and made his way back to take command of his own men, who were somewhere in the midst of the host. Robert and Bohemund simultaneously grabbed their weapons, lances and swords from their packhorses, jammed on their helmets, then called for the knights nearest to them, who were doing the same, to form up.

This would have to be done at the canter and on the wrong kind of horse; there was too little time to do anything else, certainly not enough to saddle the destriers, nor was there any opportunity to issue orders regarding the rest of their forces. They would have to hope that those in authority behind them had the sense to do what was necessary, which was to stop the pilgrims panicking and fleeing, for that could only end in death, while simultaneously setting up some kind of defence.

To do that would take time and the only way to buy that was to impose a check on these Turks charging towards them. Lances couched they advanced, the line straightening with each spread of their horses hooves. Across the floor of the valley the line extended, perhaps a hundred men in number, who knew they might well be riding to their death, there being space to pass round on each flank. It swelled Bohemund’s Norman heart to be amongst them and he looked to Robert Duke of Normandy, thinking how fine it was to be going into battle alongside such a man and such a title.