Soldier of Crusade

CHAPTER FIVE

Alexius Comnenus was in receipt of other clarifications regarding the activities of the Apulians over the following months, which stretched well into the new year of Our Lord 1097. Being himself an experienced general he was well aware of how hard it was to control thousands of fighting men, so he took at face value Bohemund’s apologies for the transgressions of his soldiers: a small fortress sacked against his wishes, those selling supplies beaten when the buyers thought they were overcharging, in one case a whole town set upon for a refusal to sell them cattle; such lapses were to be expected.

More alarming were reports of what was happening with the body that had followed as soon as improving weather allowed them to cross the Adriatic, this led by the Duke of Normandy, Stephen of Blois and Robert of Flanders. The marauding tribes that had troubled the Apulians were bad enough, but the locals en route were sick of feeding passing armies, added to which the supply of the things necessary for their well-being, requested by the imperial governors, had dried up. This obliged them to forage for supplies and since there was a fine line between that and outright sequestration there had been uprisings to which the local Byzantine commanders had felt obliged to give military support to those over whom they ruled on behalf of the Emperor.

Yet more Crusaders were now making their way down the Dalmatian coast under the fabulously wealthy Provencal magnate Raymond of Toulouse and including in its ranks the papal legate, Ademar de Monteil, bishop of Puy, and they were suffering, if anything, more in the way of local obstacles, not least from the barbarous Pechenegs who as a tribe — mercenaries apart — had ever been a thorn in the side of Byzantium. The Crusaders were finding they had to fight their way across Romania and special envoys had been despatched to facilitate their progress.

‘Who could ever have imagined they would come in such numbers?’

The person in receipt of this enquiry from the Emperor, one made many times previously, as they traversed the corridors of the Blachernae Palace, was the trusted Manuel Boutoumites. Added together — those on the way combined with those already camped around Constantinople — the figures were staggering: Alexius had reports that the armies totalled near fifteen thousand mounted men and twice that on foot.

The Curopalates responded with a wry look and a tone of deep irony to make a point that lay at the heart of imperial concerns: to what purpose was such a force assembled? ‘Are they truly devout to give up so much, or are they spurred on by greed?’

‘I do not doubt,’ Alexius replied, ‘that some are, just as I have no doubt that there are genuine pilgrims amongst them.’

‘Not Bohemund.’

The Emperor smiled, though it was not a name to often bring such a response. ‘No.’

‘Turn him away, Highness, tell him he is not welcome and send him and his men back to Apulia.’

‘I cannot, Manuel, for to do so would create a rift with the other leaders. If I say I have no faith in one of their number, then I risk implying I have no trust in any.’

‘I would advise it as sound policy to create division amongst them. Advise Godfrey de Bouillon that Bohemund told you of his attempt at communication to diminish him in your eyes.’

‘While I think it best to fashion a shared purpose. The key to holding them in check is this papal legate, Bishop Ademar. I must make common cause with him so he can remind these Crusaders of why they came here and to where they must proceed.’

‘And if he cannot control them?’

Alexius did not need any elaboration on that point; such a body of armed men camped around the city would present a threat too great to manage. All he had in his favour, apart from the walls of the city, was that supposed piety — the need to move on to Palestine, added to the other salient fact: that to act in unison they would need a leader and from what he had so far been able to discern that was not a position any one of the great nobles, much as he supposed they would hanker after it, was likely to gift to another.

‘Then I must,’ Alexius replied. ‘By a physical separation if no other way presents itself.’

He spoke these words as they entered the audience chamber, a room large enough to make his voice echo off its high-arched ceiling. Numerous assembled courtiers were waiting, while the tall axe-bearing Varangians stood guard, one to each of the numerous malachite pillars, with yet more taking station by the dais on which sat the imperial throne, their eyes seeming dead in the fashion of men engaged in such a duty, gaze fixed forward.

At the heart of Byzantium was a deep sense of the value of ceremony to establish the near divine position of the emperor, honed over centuries and which harked back to Imperial Rome. Thus when Duke Godfrey de Bouillon and his entourage of senior adherents entered the huge chamber it was to the sound of blaring trumpets. There he found Alexius Comnenus seated on his throne, dressed in a purple cloak threaded with precious embroidery and on his head the jewel-encrusted diadem, stones flashing in the sunlight streaming in through the openings in the walls, that same radiance picking up the masses of gold, both in objects and decoration, with which the audience chamber was blessed. In his hand he had the imperial insignia of axes and fasces fashioned in solid gold.

If the eyes of the imperial guards flicked, then it was to the weapons these men wore; few were ever allowed into the imperial presence bearing arms and commonly no man was allowed to approach the Emperor with anything that could be used for sudden assassination. This was an exception, a ceremony by which these Western knights would bind themselves by solemn oath to the Byzantine cause. They would use their swords as a substitute for the holy cross, while to drive home the depth of that pledge Alexius had caused the reliquary bones of several apostles to be brought to the Blachernae Palace from the Basilica of St Sophia, which each Crusader would be required to kiss.

The perfumed eunuch who had coached these men in the necessary protocol, whom he thought to be rank-smelling barbarians, had stressed that they were not to come too close to the imperial presence, while Alexius, in his majesty, kept his eyes fixed at a spot above their heads as they approached the line of dark marble tiles they had been told was the limit of their advance. There they were announced one by one, the Duke first, the rest in order of precedence, one obvious omission the name of Baldwin of Boulogne, though the youngest brother, Eustace, was present. On completion they were required to go down on one knee and only then did they come under the imperial gaze, this while that same courtier read out the oath they had agreed to take, first in Greek, then in the tongue of the Franks.

If it was somewhat less than Alexius had desired — Godfrey de Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine, had insisted he was vassal to no man and was not about to become one even to a Roman Emperor — it met the needs, as the ruler saw it, of Byzantium. They promised on the threat of eternal damnation to pay due attention to his advice, to respect his office and those who bore his commands, to return to his control any possessions taken back from the infidel which had once been imperial property and to reserve to him the fair distribution of any treasure captured in their progress.

The apostolic relics were then brought forward to be kissed, each man making a personal and whispered vow to act as an agent of the one true God, the effect on Godfrey to bring tears to his eyes. First the thigh bone of St Peter, crucified upside down in Rome, then a forearm bone of St Bartholomew, skinned alive then beheaded, a finger of St Simon the Zealot, sawn in half while alive, and finally the skull of St James, stoned and clubbed to death in his ninth decade. The message was plain to all: these are men who have martyred themselves for their faith, can you do any less?

‘Duke Godfrey, we bid you stand,’ Alexius said, adding to the wish with an upward lift of his hand, his voice changing to include the entire assembly. ‘We see before us a noble servant of Christ, a man who has already given much to the sacred cause and will go on to give more.’

Another gesture brought forth two men carrying between them a small casket, which was set down before Godfrey.

‘In order that you should know that you have our favour, and as some recompense for the sacrifices you have already made, not least in loss of land to fund your endeavour, I wish you to accept from our hand this small token of our imperial regard.’

A sharp command brought up the lid of the box, to reveal that it was full to near bursting with gold coins. If the Lotharingian knights strained to see, there was scant curiosity from the assembled courtiers; to them such as was being gifted was but a token, enough to impress a barbarian, scarce a quantity of treasure to raise a Greek eyebrow.

This was the second such ceremony in a few days; there had been another for Count Hugh of Vermandois accompanied by Walo Lord of Chaumont. The brother of the King of France stood so low in the mind of the Emperor that he had been given no more than a single gold ring, personally placed on his finger by Alexius and followed by a kiss on the cheek, and when they had fallen to talking about campaigning it was to the experienced Constable Walo that Alexius addressed more of his thoughts.

Alexius called forward Manuel Boutoumites, his favourite soldier and closest advisor, to tell Godfrey de Bouillon what he already knew, for Vermandois had been given the same instruction at his swearing.

‘His Highness wishes that you break your present camp outside the city walls and, along with the body of men led by the Count of Vermandois, cross to the southern side of the Bosphorus. There wec have prepared lines for you to move into and in which His Imperial Highness desires you remain until the rest of your confreres arrive, keeping the peace until it is time for a united advance.’

That had been a stumbling block in negotiations, for there was not a man present who had failed to mark the fate of the People’s Crusade. The combined forces of de Bouillon and Vermandois were not sufficient to stand against the leader of the Sultanate of Rum should he seek to likewise dislodge them. Protocol demanded that Boutoumites make in public the assurances that had previously been made in private.

‘Be assured that the infidel Kilij Arslan is elsewhere, far to the east doing battle with his fellow Turks, the Danishmends. They are mortal enemies, thank the Lord.’

Which meant that only their separation, mutual hatred and rivalry kept Byzantium safe, but again the fate of the People’s Crusade hung in the air; that easy victory had convinced the Sultan he had naught to fear from an army of Western knights, leaving him free to pursue other territorial aims.

‘Should he break off his attacks and move back west we would know as soon as he marched and we have the means to forewarn you and withdraw you back to the outskirts of the city.’

‘This is my wish,’ Alexius added, slapping the axes and fasces into his palm.

Diplomacy, of which he was a master, precluded him from explaining his real reason: he wanted as much of a separation as could be achieved between these men and those yet to arrive. As for the need to recross the Bosphorus, should they seek to effect a combination, that they could not do without his aid and assistance for only Byzantium had the means to transport them.

Separation would severely diminish the numbers that could pose a threat to the city itself, while at the same time imposing restrictions on any chance of them intriguing together against his position. The strictures on good behaviour would only be proved by their actions but only a fool would make the same mistake as Peter the Hermit’s rabble and provoke the Turks.

For all that, one observation would have stood out: while Godfrey might be unsure if it was a wise move to make a binding promise, his brother Baldwin was certain it was not, no doubt the reason he had absented himself and declined to join in the taking of the oath. In essence, for Alexius, this was a test of both Godfrey’s intentions and his control over all of his vassals, especially Baldwin, for it was no mystery to Alexius that he relied on his younger brother for advice.

If Godfrey declined to hold to his word, or could not control his own men, then the oath just taken was meaningless. If he did and could then that would ease the fears of Alexius for the future, given he discounted Vermandois as militarily useless, even if the men he led were of good quality and had Walo of Chaumont to temper their titular leader’s follies. He would know that at least one of the more worthy Western leaders would oblige him by obedience and that had to set an example for the others to follow.

For the Duke of Lower Lorraine the reason to comply and cross the Bosphorus had little to do with the wishes of Alexius Comnenus, more to do with the temptations to which his men were exposed by proximity to the city and the effect upon both their martial spirits and their souls. If his soldiers were barred from easy entry to Constantinople — only six were allowed inside the walls at any one time to gawp and pray, which he endlessly encouraged them to do — that did nothing to stop the devilish enticements coming out to his encampment.

Loose women, traders of shoddy goods, sellers of cures and questionable relics, even Orthodox divines seeking to detach them from the Roman Creed. Better they were in a camp far from such inducements and one in which they could recover, with the help of his priests and his captains, the true purpose of this endeavour.

‘Good,’ the Emperor concluded, adding a gesture to indicate they were dismissed. ‘I will have our imperial gift brought to you before you depart.’

Alexius was satisfied; Bohemund would find it much harder to engage Godfrey de Bouillon in any conspiracy against the city as long as the Bosphorus separated their forces, while the Apulians were not strong enough, alone, to pose a threat if he took reasonable precautions against some clever trick. They would arrive soon and that would create another test of his diplomatic skills; could he shift them too away from the city before the other contingents appeared?

Such considerations were thrown into confusion when word came that Bohemund had called a halt and was preparing to spend Easter at Hebdomon, several days march west of the city, raising the fear that he might be waiting for the Duke of Normandy and Raymond of Toulouse, who must approach along the same Via Egnatia, creating a dangerous combination. A message to say he would come on himself did nothing to allay these anxieties, for to many at the imperial court the Count of Taranto was the spawn of Satan.

‘No,’ Alexius responded, when he heard that said. ‘He is of the seed of his father. If the Guiscard was famed for anything it was never to do that which was expected of him.’

The forces of de Bouillon and Vermandois were gone by the time Bohemund arrived at the head of his familia knights, a body of twenty lances who acted to protect his person in battle. Tancred, once one of their number, had been left behind with the army, which would only come on to Constantinople once the terms by which they would ally themselves to Byzantium had been agreed.

The first thing to notice was the lack of any forces camped outside the city, the next the outer walls themselves, fifteen or more cubits in height and reputed to be half that thick, with dozens of towers so spaced and protruding as to allow archers to pin down anyone trying to assault them. Bohemund, having heard them described many times, had suspected exaggeration, but not even with that information could he be prepared for the actual sight.

More than seven Roman mille passum in length, they ran from the southern arm of the so-called Golden Horn to circle round the northern edge, there to join the sea wall which enclosed the entire city. A great chain barred access to the Bosphorus, which would have to be overcome before that flank could be threatened. To overcome what he could see was not enough, for behind that obstacle stood three more sets of fortifications all kept in decent repair, the last, the Servian Wall, protecting the very core of ancient Constantinople: the Great Palace, the Hippodrome and the greatest church in all Christendom, the mighty Basilica of Santa Sophia.

Men had been on duty to warn of Bohemund’s approach and a strong party, led by Manuel Boutoumites, set out from one of the city gates to intercept him. The identity of the new arrival, given his physical features, could not be in doubt, yet, just as legend did not do justice to the walls of the city, what Boutoumites had heard did not do justice to the Count of Taranto and this in a city not short on freakish giants. It was hard not to be astounded, even more difficult to not let it show.

Boutoumites called out his title once they had come within talking distance, following that with his own name and title of Curopalates, which got him a nod but little else.

‘Should I be flattered?’ Bohemund asked finally, which got a quizzical response. ‘I have been told of you, Boutoumites, and I know how high you stand in his counsel. You are spoken of to me as his right hand by those who write to me of such matters.’

The Byzantine replied unsmilingly, far from pleased that the Apulian general was so knowledgeable about the intricacies of the imperial court, even more so that he made no secret of it.

‘It has been my duty to greet every noble Crusader on their approach to the city, so no, to feel flattered would not be appropriate.’

Bohemund produced a wry smile. ‘Truly, Alexius asks much of those he holds dear, to be no more than a doorkeeper.’

‘He has the right to ask what he wishes of any one-’

The interruption was swift. ‘A notion to be put to the test, would you not say?’

‘I was about to add, of his subjects.’

‘Which I am not.’

‘When can we expect your army?’

‘They will come on from Heboomon when I call them. I thought it best to discuss the future with Alexius beforehand.’

‘You make it sound as if the future is in doubt.’

‘You tell me, counsellor and right-hand man, is it so?’

‘If I knew the answer to such a question it would not be my place to provide it.’

‘So is it time to find out and lead me to where I will be accommodated?’

‘If you look behind me, Count Bohemund, you will see a line of carts approaching. They bear tents sufficient to house you and your escort.’ The calm expression, which Bohemund had worn since the first greeting, changed to one of obvious irritation, which delighted Boutoumites, much as he tried to disguise it. ‘It has been imperial policy not to allow those coming to our aid to reside within the city walls, for fear that, through misunderstandings, they might incite trouble with our citizens.’

The look around the landscape was slow and deliberate for it begged the question that, if there no armies encamped there, where were they?

‘Duke Godfrey de Bouillon and the Count of Vermandois have led their forces across to the north shore of the Gulf of Nicomedia, but you will know this, surely, given you seem to know so much about what we say and do.’

‘And your army, Boutoumites, where are they?’

‘Inside the walls, where their duty requires them.’ He might have just as well said to keep you and your kind out, but diplomacy left that unspoken. ‘His Highness the Emperor desires to speak with you, but he has many other matters to occupy him. Once they have been attended to I will come for you and take you to him. In the meantime you will find that those approaching carts have upon them fodder for your mounts, food and wine for you, as well as cooks and servants to both prepare and serve it. His Highness wishes you and your knights to feel welcome.’

‘And how long must I wait upon “His Highness”?’

The Byzantine General could not fail to note the way Bohemund emphasised that honorific, which was close to an insult, and the change in his facial expression left Bohemund in no doubt he wished to say ‘as long as he damn well pleases’. When his did speak his voice was tight.

‘It will be no more than my master deems to be necessary. Until then you and your men may enter the city in numbers of no more than six at a time and without weapons, to pray if you so desire as well as to marvel at the sights the imperial capital can offer. I will send a messenger out in the morning to enquire if there is anything you need.’

‘Like the courtesy of being treated as an equal?’

Boutoumites enjoyed responding to that. ‘No one is equal to a Roman Emperor!’

It was three days before the summons came, time in which Bohemund examined the outer walls of the city in some detail, an act which did not go unobserved by those defending them, and such was his reputation it made them nervous, so much so that he acquired a distant escort of mounted lances. He also visited within the city and marvelled at the Hippodrome, while trying to imagine it in use, packed with a hundred thousand screaming and gambling Greeks, with teams of four-horse chariots racing round seeking to either overtake or tip into the dust their opponents.

Constantinople was full of magnificent churches, abbeys and monasteries, seemingly one on every corner, but none compared to the Great Church of Santa Sophia, where he went to pray beneath the great vaulted dome, a wonder of construction that seemed to defy physical reason. If he had been escorted when outside the walls he was near to hounded within, followed by a crowd of the curious, some even so taken with his person as to wish to touch him, as if doing so would ward off the danger he was known to represent or establish if he was, as they had been told, the offspring of the Devil.

This carried on as he inspected the three sets of inner walls, less formidable but still objects it would be hard to overcome, while a ride around the sea wall convinced him that the city could not be taken without the besieger had a large fleet to impede supply and the means to get beyond that great Bosphorus chain. Those of higher ranks than this horde of peasants who watched him on his progress — and he suspected one was Boutoumites — thought the city impregnable, but there was no such thing as far as the Count of Taranto was concerned.

Back outside the gates he looked at the outer walls again, knowing Constantinople would be a hard object to overcome, possibly the hardest he had ever seen, yet he could not help but wonder what his father would have made of such defences. He had been told Bari and Palermo could not be taken, yet he had captured both and if the Guiscard had never seen the fortifications of Constantinople he had dreamt of them often. These thoughts got him back to his camp, where he found Tancred waiting for him, keen to report that his army was well situated and anxious to know what was happening.

‘Nothing yet.’

‘What is Alexius playing at?’

‘Being an emperor, nephew, making sure that I know who has power and who does not.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘Not much longer, for if I am not summoned he knows that I may well ride away, to tell all of our confreres of the insult he had heaped upon me. But let us set that aside and eat together, for I have walked many a league this day and my stomach rumbles.’

‘Is the city as magnificent as they say?’

‘More, Tancred, it is staggering to think how many people live within its walls and the sights are wonders. Rest here tonight and perhaps, if Alexius still plays the despot, we may go tomorrow and you shall see for yourself.’

‘Riders approaching, My Lord.’

Leaving the table and Tancred, Bohemund went to the entrance to his sumptuous and spacious tent and observed the sun was setting behind the single fellow approaching, sending long shadows across the flat plain on which the city stood, while picking out the spires and domes that sat atop its hills. It also burnished the armour of an unescorted Manuel Boutoumites, which could only have one meaning. Having been relaxing over wine and conversation with his nephew, Bohemund had one of his men keep the Greek occupied until he was clad in his Crusader surplice, while his horse was saddled and brought to the entrance, Tancred being told to keep out of sight, an instruction which mystified him.

When the Count of Taranto emerged it was to find the Curopalates surprised at his presumption. Bohemund could have said that him coming on his own, and not sending the usual messenger, only left him to draw one conclusion: he was being summoned. But that would have provided no amusement.

‘I have been expecting you, Boutoumites. As you see I was dressed and waiting. Now let us not do that to your Emperor. It is desired, is it not, that we meet at the Blachernae Palace?’

The last was a guess, if not a wild one, but the implication was again obvious: I have spies within your court and I know everything I need to before you deign to inform me.