Soldier of Crusade

EPILOGUE

The night was hot and cloudy, the moon and stars hidden, which made movement difficult, especially since it had to be silent. The men on the southern walls would have seen a large body of knights, over five hundred in number, both mounted and on foot, making their way at dusk around the base of Mount Silpius on one of their forays to close off access to the Iron Gate. If they had paid note earlier to Tancred’s smuggler as he slipped out of the St George’s Gate they would perhaps have wondered why he was accompanied by a youth instead of being alone, this being the son of Firuz, being taken to Tancred’s bastion as a hostage, which required an extra bribe so both could pass.

Time was given for the garrison to bed down and get into a deep sleep, while the city behind them did likewise, so what they did not see, after the watch was set and in darkness, was the sixty knights that sneaked back to a point on the hillside opposite the tower commanded by Firuz, where they waited for several turns of the glass until the signal came, the short, bright flash from an unshaded lantern.

There was no way to approach the tower in silence, the slope was too steep and made up, as ever, of loose stones, so it was done at a rush, the hope that on a part of the defences poorly manned there would be no one between the adjoining towers able to hear, and those manning them would be inside. At the base of the wall, where the round fortification billowed out, Bohemund felt for and found the rope that Firuz had sent down, which eased somewhat, if not entirely, his fear that this was an elaborate trap; he had no idea if Firuz had sent a real son or some substitute he was willing to sacrifice, no idea if the smuggler had led him by the nose.

He was not alone in this dread and his intention to take the lead in what was about to happen had to be tempered by the needs of command. To ride into battle ahead of his men, to stand with them in line, both mounted and on foot, was expected of him. Not one of the men he led this night was willing that he should risk himself and they had drawn lots for who should go first, the honour, if it was that, falling to a knight called Fulcher. Quickly the cable-made ladder was tied on to the rope and hoisted up, it being in place when the tension was tested and it went taut.

‘May God be with you, Fulcher,’ Bohemund whispered, the swish of cloth that followed the man crossing himself.

Climbing a rope ladder was far from easy, made harder the more men got on it and began to climb, it reacting like a snake to every movement of foot or hand. Also the knights were keen and too many sought to ascend at once so, when they were halfway up, it parted in the middle, sending half a dozen men tumbling into the hard ground. If Bohemund could hear the sound of breaking bones, whatever wounds had been sustained brought no sound from the afflicted, some of whom might be dead for all their leader knew.

Caution had to be set aside and Bohemund called up for the ladder to be lowered, once the men still climbing were on the battlements, so it could be repaired. Time in the dark seems everlasting, this night being no different, and still Bohemund did not know if his men were safe. They had been ordered to remain quiet, the only indication of their wellbeing the lack of any screams as they found themselves betrayed. The rope was dropped, the reknotted ladder raised back up, but he could wait no longer and it was their Count who led the rest of his knights in the ascent.

When he got there Fulcher was waiting to hand him onto the battlements. ‘Your Armenian is honest and has his men on the parapet guarding against anyone coming from the other towers. They have already taken care of the sentinels on both sides.’

Bohemund did not even know he had been holding his breath until the great gush of air escaped.

‘You know your duty, Fulcher,’ he said, passing him his banner.

‘I do, My Lord.’

One by one his knights arrived, to be herded onto the parapet, then split up to move to the adjacent towers, past Firuz’s Armenians who retired to their quarters. If all failed they would desert, if not it was the only place to be safe. Silent killing came as naturally to Normans as lance work and one party moved on and up to the small portal that led to the living quarters of the defenders in the adjoining tower. There they found them asleep, which should have made despatching them simple, yet it was not. Several of the detachment, twenty men strong and all Turks, managed to wake up and what followed was bloody indeed, only hushed because it was contained within thick stone walls.

Behind them the same execution was being carried out by their confreres and soon Bohemund had three towers under his control, all of which had stairways down to the city they were set to protect. The next target was the St George’s Gate, two more towers down the sloping walls, outside which Tancred was waiting, but first Bohemund had to get the rest of his knights, those who had not ascended the rope ladder, inside through a nearby postern gate, while leaving a number on the parapet to deal with the remaining towers.

Thick planks of timber had been nailed into the mortar surrounding the gate, and for all the efforts at silence, ripping them away could not be done noiselessly, that made worse by those outside, in seeking to help, beginning to hammer with their pommels to knock it in. The noise was too much, Bohemund could hear cries of wonder or alarm from the dwelling nearby and he reasoned the time for subtlety was past. As soon as the planks were detached and the postern gate forced open he yelled at the top of his lungs, calling for the aid of God to their purpose, a cry taken up by all of his knights.

The move to the St George’s Gate took only moments, this while above their heads the detachments in the gate towers woke and began to seek their weapons. When they rushed out of their sleeping quarters it was to be cut down by Norman swords, the same fate befalling the Turks guarding the huge wooden doors. Ten knights formed a ring of defence and held the torches that had been in scones while their confreres first raised the portcullis on its winch, the gates themselves rushed at as soon as men could get beneath the metal teeth, the great baulk of timber by which it was secured being removed and the doors swung open.

Tancred came through at a rush, leading hundreds of men, to find his fellow Apulians screaming like banshees and rushing down the various narrow streets, now becoming crowded with the alarmed populace who had come out to identify the commotion, many of whom died for their curiosity: the Crusaders had no time to do anything but cut down anyone who stood in their way; they needed to get to and open the Bridge Gate, which would allow entry to Godfrey de Bouillon and his Lotharingian knights, awake and ready to do battle as Bohemund had arranged.

The whole city was soon in uproar, the wiser citizens hiding in their houses, leaving the streets to become a killing zone for the Turks, many of whom fought desperately and well, but died anyway given their efforts were uncoordinated and they were unprepared. Added to that, on the outside the noise of battle had roused out all the other Crusader sections, Raymond and the Duke of Normandy, once they realised what was afoot, quick to get their men to a gate that would open before them once their confreres on the other side had secured it.

For many a glass of sand the fighting went on, still in darkness and torchlight. Blood illuminated by flaring flame was black and it flowed in the gutter like rainfall, only turning to red when the sun began to rise. Eventually that crested the mountains enough to light the great banner that Fulcher had raised on the highest tower of Mount Silpius, the red fluttering standard with the blue and white chequer of the house of de Hauteville.

Tancred and Bohemund stood in front of the Church of the Martyr, St Ignatius, chests heaving and covered in blood and gore, while all around them battle continued, for the Turks would not give up easily and if they had to die, they would not do so cheaply, their eyes fixed on their family ensign.

‘What would your father say to this, Uncle?’

‘Who knows? The Guiscard was never one for praise.’

‘He might loosen his feelings in the face of this; he might say, “Hail, Bohemund, Prince of Antioch.”’