Count Bohemond

by Alfred Duggan

  The casual council of war was already breaking up. They had encamped for the night among the grassy hills just west of ruined Dorylaeum. It had been agreed, without any formal vote, that the whole army should move by the southern of the three roads which divided here. Since no one had suggested delay the poorer pilgrims were already loading the baggage and striking the pavilions of their lords. They had learned one fact from the local Greeks, and were proud of their knowledge: that it was wise to march at sunrise and rest during the great heat of the afternoon.

  Robert of Flanders had overhead the conversation. His mind was quicker than the Duke’s. “You want to use the tents as an obstacle against a Turkish charge? It’s not our kind of fighting, and anyway you are too late. With a different kind of army it might be a good idea. But you know the old saying: ‘Order, counter-order, disorder.’ Look, there’s my pavilion coming down. If some of us halt while others press on the pilgrimage will spread over miles of road. We must march all together. But I’ll tell my men to keep well closed up, and if there’s a battle I shall follow your advice. Perhaps the Turks won’t attack until tomorrow, though I agree that their scouts ride as though there were an attack coming.”

  Within an hour the pilgrimage had stretched out into column of route. Ox-drawn waggons and pack-animals plodded along the narrow paved road, and with them the countless women and children of the poorer pilgrims. Spearmen and cross-bows guarded the long train of non-combatants, and all the knights rode in one body at the head.

  The rear of the column was just leaving the old camp site when a great roaring came from the hills to the north. Taticius cantered up to Bohemond, which was quicker than explaining through his interpreter.

  “Turkish kettledrums, the things my people use instead of trumpets to hearten them for battle. But never in my life have I heard so many, not even when the whole horde of the Seljouks drove my father within the Empire. See, those are their standards on the brow of the hill. Horse-tail after horse-tail. I could count them and guess at their numbers, but now there’s no time. This is it! The greatest battle since Manzikert! By nightfall there will be heaps of dead men. Make sure there are plenty of infidels among them.”

  “Will you be leaving us?” inquired Bohemond.

  “My Turcopoles are off, and I don’t blame them. They say they will fetch help from the other column behind you. Of course no one will understand them, or believe them. You must send Frankish messengers at once—and get those tents pitched.”

  “But you will stay?”

  “Blame my handsome nose. I can’t mingle with the infidel like my followers. My head is famous in these parts, and the King of the Turks will pay generously for it. I stay. Now do get those tents pitched, and the horses under cover. If you can keep your men in line some of us may see another dawn.”

  Bohemond spoke briefly to the knights of Apulia. “Gentlemen, the enemy seems to be all round us. Hold hard until I tell you to move. I must get the tents pitched. Count Tancred will command you until I return.”

  The non-combatant pilgrims were excited, but not yet frightened; for the knights stood between them and the Turks. They were glad to here definite orders, and eager to carry them out. The servants hoisted tents and stretched a maze of guy-ropes along the ground. Some cross-bows took station among the tents, others moved up to join the knights. Women and clerks unloaded the waggons and drove beasts to shelter behind them. The more active women volunteered to carry water to the knights and their horses in the front line. Already the sun was hot, and by midday it would be much hotter.

  All the non-combatants, without distinction of race, willingly obeyed Bohemond. His height made him unmistakable, everyone knew who he was, and no other great lord was issuing conflicting orders. He sent back a patrol of well-mounted troopers to beg urgent help from Count Raymond. The south French ought to be about a day’s march to the west, but they might have caught up a bit; anyway knights could gallop twenty miles in a couple of hours if they left their foot behind. The Turks seemed to be attacking from the north, though their numbers overlapped both Christian flanks. Pools and marshy streams covered the south, the Christian rear. The western Turkish wing seemed puzzled by the tents and unwilling to close. If the troopers were lucky they might get away safely.

  As Bohemond galloped back to his knights he saw in imagination thousands of little figures riding over the rolling grassland. The Turks would not charge, they would shoot. The cross-bows would damage them. Then he recalled that Turkish arrows would not fit into the western machines. The cross-bows would be helpless when their quivers were empty. He must go among them and make sure they aimed carefully. If he were alive tomorrow he would set the smiths to making waggon loads of spare bolts. He should have thought of it earlier.

  A Turkish arrow could not kill a mailed knight. But it could kill his horse, unless he dismounted and stood before it. Would knights do that? Normans, perhaps; but the French volunteers would charge out against their tormentors. The line would waver. As men were killed the survivors would close up, round the banners of their lords. Once the line broke Turks would get in behind and hamstring the horses. A Frank might be a match for five Turks, but a score of them could get him down and cut his throat as he lay on the ground. With his left elbow Bohemond felt the hilt of his great sword. Turks would be dead before that hung as a trophy in some infidel tent.

  By the time he reached his knights he was smiling cheerfully. A leader must always appear gay and confident. But he was also pleased at what he saw. For once, the Normans of Apulia were doing as they had been told.

  His men stood motionless in a solid line. Some knights had dismounted, and every horse was shielded by a footman of some kind, cross-bow or spearman or dismounted knight. On the right of his line the Normans of Normandy stood in the same formation. On the extreme right Robert of Flanders, that intelligent captain, had curved back his right wing to face the outflanking Turks. The left wing was anchored to the camp, the rear was guarded by the stream. Now all they had to do was to stand firm until the Turks charged or until night fell, whichever should happen first.

  Three hours later even the most conscientious leader could not smile to encourage his men. So far neither side had won or lost, but the pilgrims were suffering much more than the Turks. Perhaps the noise was as unpleasant as anything else. Every battlefield is noisy, but here the sounds were unfamiliar. The thudding of the kettledrums never ceased. The main Turkish line stood two hundred yards away, but bands of archers galloped by at very close range. They rode from east to west, so that they might shoot in comfort from the near side of their horses; and all the time they gabbled in high outlandish voices.

  Sometimes a cross-bow brought down a Turk or a Turkish pony. The best shot of all hit an infidel in the thigh and killed pony and rider together. When Bohemond saw this he inquired for the man’s name, and promised him a reward after victory was won. But the pilgrims had few bolts left, and the Turks rode so close that they were past in a flash.

  Little groups of knights had disobeyed orders and tried to chase away their assailants. That always led to disaster. Ringed round by archers, their horses were shot down; the few knights who struggled back on foot had been horribly gashed in the face and legs by the razor-sharp Turkish sabres. Few got back. While they lay under their dead horses the Turks, quick to discover the weak points in unfamiliar armour, stabbed them in the throat or under the skirts of their mail. The sun was high, the dust-cloud thick, and Frankish mail felt desperately hot and heavy.

  Three spearmen left their station in the front line and stumbled towards the camp. Bohemond, dismounted, strode after them. The man he caught by the shoulder went back to his duty, but the others got away. A dismounted knight looked longingly over his shoulder. In a slight lull in the din Bohemond bellowed: “Hold fast, gentlemen. Here’s a new war-cry. Trust in God and end the day rich. Pass it down the line. It’s true. When we have broken the Turkish charge we shall pillage their camp.”

  A woman splashed
water over his head. He was surprised not to see a cloud of steam. As she recognised him she called: “My lord, send some knights to the camp. In a few minutes the Turks will break in, and all the children will be martyred.” He knew her voice. She was not a common woman of the camp. She was a waiting lady who looked after the two small children of the lady Godvere, the Norman wife of Baldwin of Boulogne. A waiting lady would know something of warfare. Her warning must be taken seriously.

  Here was a mounted Christian. He must be ordered to get off his horse like everyone else. Oh no, it was good old Taticius who did not take orders from any Frank. With his Turkish bow and an unlimited supply of enemy arrows he had been busy since the battle began; though he had to keep carefully behind the front line unless he wanted every archer on both sides to shoot at him.

  “Taticius, see what’s happening in the camp. I haven’t time to go there on foot, and if I mount everyone who sees me will panic. Tell me if they need help there.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t get near the camp. Turkish ponies are floundering among all the guy-ropes, and I don’t want to be killed by a Christian cross-bow. That’s what I came from the left flank to tell you. I can say it without spreading alarm, since you are the only Frank who understands Greek. In about half an hour the camp will be overrun. Perhaps that’s the best way. In their hurry to get at your rear the Turks will kill the non-combatants. It’s better that they should be killed while the knights are still fighting, better than leaving them alive for the slave-market. Whoa, pony. I’ve done enough riding for today.”

  Taticius rammed his bow into its case on the saddle. As he slipped off the pony’s back he crossed himself in the Greek fashion, and then drew his sabre.

  “So it’s come to that?” Bohemond sighed. “I suppose it’s my fault, though I still don’t see what I should have done different. All the same, keep your pony. When the Turks get round behind us I shall tell my knights to mount. We like to end a battle on horseback, you know. It’s considered a mark of good breeding. And we may corner a few infidels against the stream behind us. So far we have killed very few of them.”

  Taticius slipped as he grabbed at the dangling reins of his pony. He put one hand to the ground to save himself, and then stared at it intently. Then he bent his head right down beside the hand. As he stood erect he was smiling all over his face.

  “A Frank wouldn’t feel it, but I can. A throbbing. Big horses, ridden hard. I think this fight is just beginning.”

  “Count Raymond,” whispered Bohemond with an answering grin. He beckoned to his trumpeter.

  “Blow, ‘Get mounted.’ Blow it three times. Afterwards say a Paternoster to get your breath back. Then blow, ‘Charge’ until you burst. Here’s a gold bezant. It’s my last, but if I have timed this wrong money will soon be of no use to me.”

  As the first call rang out there was a bustle all down the line. Other trumpets took it up. As Bohemond swung himself into the saddle he kept his eyes on the skyline. Most knights would have considered rescue a happy ending, but he was gambling the lives of all the pilgrims on complete victory. If the Turks were driven off they would come back again tomorrow. They must be caught by a simultaneous charge of the whole army while they were still too close to disengage.

  Here was the first sound of the “Charge”. It was a long call, and Bohemond had seldom heard its last note; usually it was drowned by the thunder of galloping hoofs.

  Over there, just behind the camp, were the long wriggling banners of Toulouse and Provence. As he pushed his horse through the front rank he saw far to the right the banners of Lorraine and Boulogne. Best of all, as he cleared his lance from the body of a Turkish archer, he saw the stiff gold and silver banner of the legate, right behind the infidel line. Adhemar, that warlike Bishop, had taken the enemy in the rear. Everything had worked out according to plan; according to God’s plan, of course, for no sinful Frank could have brought off such a perfectly timed converging attack.

  Chapter VIII - Which Road to Jerusalem?

  The united army of the pilgrimage rested for two days beside Dorylaeum, to recover from the strain of the famous victory. It was decided to continue the march in one body for greater safety; though the division in the council of leaders was even greater than before, since there were now only two rivals for the supreme command. All the Normans and their companions in the first column swore that Bohemond was the most cunning warleader since Alexander; everyone who had galloped with the second column attributed the entire victory to the skill of Count Raymond.

  A wonderful victory it had been. Many Turks got away, for the Frankish horses were already exhausted when the pursuit began; but the infidels were utterly demoralized. They did not attempt to defend their camp, though as homeless nomads they carried all their wealth in their tents. Local peasants reported gleefully that for many miles to the east the road was lined with Turkish ponies, ridden to death by their terrified masters. The spoil had been even richer than the gifts of the faithless Alexius.

  But when the pilgrims marched out from Dorylaeum, on 3rd July 1097, they were beyond the edge of the known world. Taticius reported formally, through his interpreter, that he knew no more of the country ahead than any Frank.

  “This map shows the road, and the towns, and the cisterns set up by past Emperors for their troops at the end of each day’s march. But I’m told none of this remains. The road is broken up, the towns are deserted, the cisterns are dry. This country was always short of water, and in less than thirty years the Turks have made it into a desert. I advise you to strike south-east, marching fast and carrying as much water as you can. Beyond the desert you will find Christian Armenians. You already have Armenian exiles with you. They can tell you more than I can.”

  These Armenian exiles were a subject of great interest, though for lack of interpreters few pilgrims could speak with them. During the midday halt after they left Dorylaeum, Tancred discussed what he knew with his uncle.

  “I am more alone than ever before,” he began. “My brother William was killed, charging with Count Hugh and his Frenchmen. He should have stayed among the Normans, who care for their comrades. You and I fought for five hours, and never got a scratch. He charged for about ten minutes at the end of the day. A Turkish arrow opened a vein in his leg, and because no Frenchman stopped to help him he bled to death. It’s the end he wanted when he left home, so I mustn’t complain. His vow is fulfilled. I can kill enough infidels for two, to make up for his loss. It’s because I want to go off on my own, killing infidels, that I came to see you. Can you spare me some knights if I leave the line of march?”

  “My dear boy, a great many knights will follow the hero Tancred whatever I say. But you set a bad example. We shall never free Jerusalem unless we remain in one great army. What is this idea of yours, anyway?”

  “I have been talking to that Armenian who speaks Arabic. Far off to the south-east, but more or less on the direct road to Antioch, lie some walled towns. One of them is Tarsus, where St. Paul was born. The burgesses in these towns are Christians, Greek or Armenian. Turks hold the castles, but there are not very many of them. If a Christian lord were to take one of these castles the Armenians would fight for him and the Greeks would pay him their taxes.”

  “But suppose the Christian lord had vowed to liberate Jerusalem? How could he fulfil his vow?”

  “As far as I am concerned no date was set. I shall never go back to Apulia. As lord of Tarsus I could one day help to liberate Jerusalem.”

  “I see, but it’s all in the future. Look here, young Tancred. At this moment the army of the pilgrimage is pretty well divided into two. All the Normans want to follow me, all the south French want to follow Raymond. That’s much worse than it was before the battle, when we had at least a dozen rival leaders. Don’t make any move on your own, I beg you. If you go there will be a real split. Is any other lord planning to take over these Armenian towns?”

  “Yes. That’s why I don’t want to wait too long. These Armenian exiles a
re the guests of Count Baldwin, the youngest of the Boulogne brothers. How they talk to him I don’t know. I suppose he has found one of them who speaks Greek, and of course he has Greek interpreters. I must move before Baldwin, though I’ll wait as long as I can. Is it really true that the Pope started this pilgrimage without making any arrangement for the leadership? I’m quite sure Count Raymond was not appointed leader, whatever he says now. If there is no true leader, then I am not deserting my lord if I go off on my own.”

  “I have heard different rumours, but I agree with you that the Pope never appointed a leader. Like everyone else, he took it for granted that we had one. The Greek Emperor wanted help from the west. We came to help him. He ought to be leading us now. I still can’t decide why he was afraid to take it on. He’s no coward, as I know to my cost. If he thinks the campaign is hopeless why did he suggest it to the Pope in the first place? It doesn’t make sense. Yet everything Alexius proposes makes sense, from his point of view.”

  “What about this? It isn’t my idea, it came from my bright Armenian friend. Alexius wishes to restore the old boundaries of his Empire. He doesn’t want Jerusalem. As things stands he never has any trouble from his Bishops. One of his titles is Isapostolos, equal to the Apostles. He appoints and dismisses his Patriarch. He makes new rules for his Church. The Patriarch of a Christian Jerusalem won’t like that, and the Emperor won’t be able to control two Patriarchs at once, three if you include Antioch. If he were under the ban of Jerusalem, as the King of France is under the ban of Rome, his crown would sit uneasily.”

  “I never thought of that. Of course your Armenian friend hates the Greeks even more than we do. Still, it explains things. Do you see what it means? Alexius doesn’t stay at home because he thinks we can liberate Jerusalem on our own, or because he is neutral in the Holy War. He actively wishes us to fail, because we are a danger to him. To think that when we met I offered him my help! But Taticius isn’t in this. He’s an honest old veteran.”