“Perhaps. He may be guiding us the wrong way on purpose. But you agree that we have no genuine leader, and that any pilgrim may take what measures seem best to him so long as he does not harm the common cause?” Tancred was persistent and singleminded.
“You owe no fealty to any man. But I am your mother’s brother, and I suppose the most eminent of all the Hauteville knights. I ask you, out of family affection, not to leave us just yet. We very nearly lost that last battle and there are still a great many Turks in Anatolia. Let us all march in one body at least until we reach these Armenian towns.”
“I’ll promise that much, unless Count Baldwin leaves us first. I’ll even promise to obey your commands in battle, though it is more than my duty. Would you like an oath?”
“Not from you. I heard you promise.”
It was the right thing to say. Tancred went off in a glow of happiness.
The journey was even worse than Taticius had foretold. Throughout July and the beginning of August they struggled through a waterless and empty desert, in greater heat than any Frank had experienced. The map showed villages, ploughlands, cisterns; thirty years ago the Empire had drawn rich taxes and stout recruits from this province. Taticius explained that what Turks liked was an open grassy plain where their sheep might graze. That was what they had tried to produce here; but lack of springs and too much salt in the ground had instead produced a wilderness.
The pilgrims managed somehow. At dawn there was dew on the scrub; to chew a leafy bough would moisten the mouth, and they were all too thirsty to feel hungry. But horses died by the score.
The loss of a warhorse meant, at least for the time being, the loss of a knight. They had captured some Turkish ponies, and if ever they reached Syria horses would be plentiful; but native horses were smaller than those from the west, and they must be trained to charge straight. Every time Bohemond saw a dying beast on the ground he felt as though he were losing blood from his own body.
He plodded on foot at the head of the Apulians, leading his last remaining horse which bore his mail. In this heat no knight could march dismounted in his mail; some piled their mail on the baggage waggons, even throwing away good plunder to make room for it. That was better than nothing, since western mail could not be replaced in the east and there was plenty more plunder waiting for them in Jerusalem. But Bohemond considered it unmilitary. If an alarm came he did not wish to run to the baggage, or fight in his tunic.
Only Taticius and his pony did not feel the heat. About half of the Turcopoles had rejoined the pilgrimage after the great victory; the rest had either joined the Turks or been killed as they tried to do so. At present Turcopoles were valued scouts, all the more useful because they would certainly fall back on the Franks at the first sign of the foe. Little Golden Nose rode easily beside the plodding Bohemond.
“Can’t you lighten that burden of mail?” he asked anxiously. “In an emergency like this my people would throw away their cuirasses. Anyone who keeps shield and sabre can rob an armed corpse after the next battle.”
“That’s no good to us,” answered Bohemond. “Frankish mail is made in one piece, from head to shins. No knight would dare to charge without it, and if we can’t charge we can’t fight. I suppose the Emperor knew this desert would finish us even if we beat the infidels in the first battle. That’s why he went home.”
“Come, you mustn’t say that to me,” Taticius replied sharply. “Other pilgrims say it, but they can’t say it in Greek so it doesn’t bother me. I am the Emperor’s faithful servant, and he would not send me to my death. No one in the city knew that this desert existed. Shall I show you the map once more?”
“What’s the use? Here is the desert, and here we are in the middle of it. Can you make a guess about how much more of it we have to walk through?”
“Not a guess. I know. Look, here on the map is Iconium. Only a year ago that was an inhabited town, and there are streams and orchards in the suburbs. Even if the infidels have killed all the Christians they can’t dry up the water. Make for it as fast as you can, and then you can rest the surviving horses. Besides, if you push on hard you may kill Count Raymond. I hear he is very ill.”
“Another reason why I can’t hurry. If he dies while I lead the army everybody will say I murdered him. At least he is dying decently, of fever and hardship. He didn’t go off to fight bears when he ought to be fighting infidels.”
“My dear Bohemond, you ought to serve the Emperor. You don’t think like a Frank. Of course Duke Godfrey had to fight the bear when his men had found it for him. That’s one of the things I like about Franks. Turks have the same point of view. In fact the two peoples are so alike that they must descend from a common stock. After all, if Duke Godfrey is gravely wounded the bear was not only killed but eaten. No dispute about which of them won the fight.”
The pilgrimage struggled on. Bohemond noted that knights, who had eaten well all their lives, could stand starvation just a little better than the poor. Thousands died, but few of them were noted warriors. If he could find horses to mount his knights the army would be as strong as before Dorylaeum.
Just in time to avert complete disaster they reached the valley of Iconium. The town was almost empty; a few squatters reported that the Turks had driven off all the inhabitants they could catch just before the pilgrims arrived. But even Turks could not make a desert of the fruitful, well-watered valley. The pilgrims settled down for a long stay, to give the sick a chance to recover.
As Bohemond lay in green grass, in the shade of peach trees, he tried to make plans for the future. The desert lay behind them. Not far off to the south and east were settlements of warlike Armenians. They had passed a barrier which Alexius had considered impassable.
Their next stop must be Antioch, an indispensable base for the liberation of the Holy Land. There were several roads, though all were barred by high mountains. They might go where they wished. The Turks must be utterly cowed. Otherwise they would not have abandoned this precious valley, with a defensible walled town in its centre. No one could tell him very much about the Armenians, newcomers who had settled in these parts after the Turks had driven out the Greeks. What mattered most of all was whether the Armenians bred good horses, with which he could remount his knights.
The army would go wherever he decided. Fortune had placed him, for the moment, in supreme command. That would not last much longer. Duke Godfrey was recovering from the wounds received on that frivolous bear hunt. But though Godfrey might be a rival he was not an adversary. They could work together.
Count Raymond, if he lived, would be a greater obstacle. He opposed anything suggested by Bohemond, and most unfairly he had gained prestige by his part in winning the battle at Dorylaeum. All he had done was to gallop towards the enemy, which was the duty of any good knight; but Bohemond had persuaded his followers to dismount, and then induced them to stand firm under the Turkish arrows for the better part of a long hot day. Of course the Normans alone had won the-battle, and the south French had merely helped them to drive the defeated foe from the field. But public opinion makes these odd mistakes.
It would be best for all concerned if Count Raymond should now fulfil his vow to liberate Jerusalem or die in the attempt. He was a very sick man. He had been anointed, so he must be in danger of death; but these south Frenchmen were cautious, wishing to be prepared for all eventualities. It would be just like Count Raymond to get well after all.
Then little bow-legged Taticius bustled up with exciting news. “Another horde of Turks has come out to bar the way. They are not Seljouks, the people you beat at Dorylaeum. This is the Danishmend horde, and they have never met Franks before. They are gathering to the east of us, outside Heraclea. Here it is on the map. I know I’m right. My scouts have seen them.”
“Eastward, and on the main road? That helps me to make up my mind. We march there as soon as we are fit to move. But why should they bar the way? Forgive me, but it doesn’t seem to me the way Turks usually fight.”
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“It isn’t. We like to attack from the flank or the rear. We don’t usually hold a river crossing. My guess is that these people don’t want to bring on a battle, they want to persuade you to take the southern road, through Cilicia. They aren’t interested in what happens to the infidels of Syria. The Danishmends graze their sheep in what this map calls Cappadocia, all this mountainous region south of the Black Sea. They don’t like strangers marching through it. They are a famous horde, you know, supposed to be even fiercer than the Seljouks. It might be a good thing to avoid them. You can get to Antioch just as well by the southern route.”
“I expect we could, but we must think of the pilgrims who will come after us. No road may be barred to Frankish knights, and the sooner all the Turks know that the better for Christendom. I won’t ravage their land, because that would mean marching north, away from Jerusalem. But if they come out and challenge us to fight we shall just knock them over in passing.”
Taticius shrugged. “I suppose that is the right thing, if you enjoy fighting.”
Within a few days Count Raymond took a turn for the better. Once his fever had broken recovery was certain, and to Bohemond’s annoyance it was speedy. Duke Godfrey was also well enough to attend the council of leaders, so that once more the pilgrims were led by a wrangling triumvirate. Because Bohemond has said so often that the Emperor had deliberately sent them to their doom Count Raymond was now a stout supporter of the Greeks, making excuses for everything they had done. Duke Godfrey held the balance. He was landless, and by now penniless, but all the pilgrims respected his birth, his honesty and his courage. Luckily he in his turn respected the military skill of Bohemond, who could usually persuade the army to do as he advised; but Bohemond had to argue and persuade, he could not issue commands.
When the pilgrims were ready to move they found they had reached the end of the desert and could once more plan the day’s march on the Greek map.
Before noon on a bright sunny day they sighted the Turkish horde. The weather was cooler, and the army reasonably fit. Godfrey, Raymond and Bohemond drew aside from the dust of the march to examine the enemy position.
“A Turkish army waiting to be attacked,” murmured Godfrey.
“No attempt at surprise. We ought to be able to deal with them.”
“Let’s show that we can be as careful and thorough in our tactics as the Greeks,” said Raymond. “Those Turks must have a ravine or some kind of obstacle in front of them. They want us to charge them, and therefore we won’t. We’ll send forward our foot. While cross-bows and Turks exchange arrows the knights make a wide sweep to the right, cross the ravine out of sight, and come in on the flank. We shall catch the lot of them.”
“Unless they scatter our foot and plunder our baggage before the knights arrive,” Bohemond answered. “I can’t see a ravine. There may be no obstacle. We won’t use elaborate tactics against these men, let’s just scare them to death. I’ll charge their centre as hard as I can. If that doesn’t work it will be time to call up the cross-bows.”
“I’m not really fit for a charge of that kind,” Raymond objected. “My doctor says so, and I don’t feel up to it. My way will be slower, but in the end we shall kill more infidels.”
“Your way will kill more Turks, if they wait for us,” said Godfrey. “But we haven’t come here to kill Turks. There are too many of them, anyway. Life just isn’t long enough. It’s better to frighten them so badly that they don’t interfere while we are liberating Jerusalem. I prefer Bohemond’s plan. I’m not yet fit either. Raymond and I will ride gently in the rear rank, just to show that all the leaders are in agreement. Come on, Bohemond, show us how it should be done. Never before have I seen a charge from the outside, so to speak. I’ve always been in it, or riding to meet it.”
“Taticius,” Bohemond called in rapid, confident and ungrammatical Greek. “I want to knock over the king of those infidels. Can you spot him?”
“In the middle of their line. He has a banner beside his horsetails, and the kettledrummers ride just behind him.”
Bohemond and Tancred began to muster all the knights who still rode sound horses. They were pitifully few.
Even these horses were so weak that the squadron advanced at a gentle trot, until they were almost within arrow range. Now they could all see that the ground stretched level between them and the Turks; who were actually preparing to charge them, instead of drawing their bows. Bohemond called, “Deus Vult” the war-cry common to the whole pilgrimage.
For just a few seconds it seemed that there would be a splendid head-on collision, the kind of fight that every Frankish knight enjoyed. The Turks came on bravely, making a tremendous noise. They shouted and waved their sabres, their drums banged away, their ponies neighed, their holy men in the rear began a high quavering chant. Their king, gleaming in silk and furs, stood high in his short stirrups.
He saw galloping against him two huge men, Bohemond and Tancred. Their horses were twice as big as Turkish ponies; behind their long shields appeared only fierce eyes glaring beside the steel noseguard; two long lances pointed unwavering at his breast. The Danishmend jerked at his pony’s bit; he turned it about while it stood on its hind legs. All his men followed as he galloped off to safety.
Bohemond nearly caught him, because his horse was already at full stretch as the Turk started. A gallant drummer saved his lord. His pony was knocked over with a great clangour of kettledrums, and the rider at once trampled to pulp under charging hoofs. But Bohemond’s horse checked to jump the fallen pony. A moment later the Turks were drawing away from the weary horses of the pilgrims.
“I hope some of them have been genuinely scared to death,” said Bohemond to Godfrey as the column re-formed. “Apart from that I don’t think we hurt a dozen men.”
“Does it matter? They have nothing that we wish to take from them. The Greek Emperor can attend to them, while he rescues their Christian subjects. Surely it’s enough that Turks dare not face our charge. Perhaps they won’t hold Antioch against us.”
That evening the pilgrims rested comfortably in the battered but still inhabited town of Heraclea.
In the morning the leaders met in council, principally to decide on their route to Antioch. It was already September, four months since they had left Constantinople, a full year since the north Frenchmen had left home. It would take them at least another year to liberate Jerusalem and ride back. They were growing impatient.
Taticius appeared with his interpreter and his famous bundle of dog-eared maps. Not far to the south of Heraclea lay the rich and fruitful province of Cilicia, inhabited by warlike Armenian Christians. From Tarsus a well-known road led to Antioch. It was the obvious way to go, but Taticius advised against it.
The only way into Cilicia from the north was by the famous Cilician Gates, a narrow pass which had been deadly to many armies; the only way out, from Tarsus to Antioch, was by the almost equally narrow Syrian Gates. Whereas if they travelled northward for about a hundred miles they would join a good Greek road which led down, by an easy passage through the mountains, to reach Antioch from the north. That was the road used by Greek merchants in the old days, when Antioch was a Greek fortress.
As soon as the interpreter had finished Count Raymond jumped to his feet. “I agree with our guide. What’s an extra hundred miles in a year-long journey? Besides, I’ve had enough of narrow passes. Before we reached Durazzo my men came through the mountains of Sclavonia, and the mountaineers did us great harm. When a savage stands on top of a cliff and rolls down great boulders a mailed knight cannot catch him. We have thousands of unarmed followers, women and children. Our stores and wealth are carried in ox-drawn waggons. We must take the easier road.”
At once Tancred replied. “It’s enough for me that the Greeks recommend the northern road. When have the Greeks done us anything but harm? I say we must go south. The way to Cilicia may be dangerous, but at present the infidels are too frightened to hold it against us. If I go with a few friends and occ
upy this pass, will the rest of you come after me? It will be safe, safe enough even for the mighty Count of Toulouse. The infidels may rally before we are ready to use the second pass, into Syria. Then we go by sea. Tarsus is a port, or was. If there are no ships there now we can wait while they build some.”
“A voyage is a troublesome business,” put in the Duke of Normandy, without bothering to rise. “Embarking the horses . .. not that we have many horses . . . let’s go north. . . .” His voice trailed away.
“I’m for the long way round, if that’s what Taticius recommends.” Duke Godfrey was on his feet, to make sure everyone saw which side he supported. “We can’t usefully discuss country none of us have seen. By hearsay the northern route sounds safest. What do you think, Count Bohemond?”
“I agree with Count Raymond.” Bohemond also stood, to notice more easily the gasp of relief and amazement which greeted these simple words.
He could not say what had decided him. He trusted Taticius, but he distrusted Greeks in general; so that more or less cancelled out. He did not like the idea of a dangerous pass; he was sure the pilgrims would get through it to Jerusalem, but it would be troublesome for small parties going home after fulfilling their vows. At bottom he was trying an experiment: would Count Raymond be friendly when they were both on the same side, or was he such a determined rival that he would have second thoughts just to disagree with him?
“Count Robert of Flanders? Agreed? Count Hugh? Is anyone against? My lord legate?” Duke Godfrey collected the voices like a skilled chairman. Any decision was better than a long debate, in their total ignorance of local geography. It was notorious that the Bishop of Le Puy never intervened in a military discussion, and never gave an opinion unless he was asked.
“I have no objections, gentlemen. I do not presume to direct the movements of the army. Do both these routes lie within the limits of the Empire? Perhaps it is time to remind you of the oaths you swore in Constantinople. Soon we shall be liberating flourishing cities.”
Count Bohemond Page 15