Bohemond could not recall perfectly every mile of an unfamiliar road, but the castle of Antioch, perched on Mount Silpius, was a handy landmark. As they approached it Bohemond heard, above the clatter of hoofs and the warcries, a distant roar of battle. On the spur of the moment he changed his entire plan of action. He gave up the slow pursuit of the convoy and led his knights at full gallop in a northerly half-circle. He had guessed right. They came over a rise to see a strong Turkish force closely engaged with the palisades of the pilgrim camp.
The Turks saw them at the same time, but because of the ridge could not estimate their numbers. Men who fight by ambuscade will be nervous of being ambushed in their turn. At once the Turks disengaged and began to retire over the bridge into Antioch. Bohemond charged towards the bridge-head, Count Raymond beside him.
It was all working out. Bohemond felt a glow of godlike omniscience as for the second time in one afternoon his enemies did exactly what he had expected them to do. He had guessed that they would attack the camp while they ambushed the convoy, and that the attackers would retreat rather than face Christian reinforcements. Now he must drive them over the great bridge before the first waggon could reach it. He squeezed his horse.
The Turks fought badly. Everything was going wrong for them; all they wanted was safety behind the walls of Antioch. Some ass must have feared that the besiegers would enter with the fugitives, for the gate was closed and barred before more than the head of the column had entered. The rearmost Turks lost heart. Some tried to make their ponies swim the river, and were drowned; others pulled cloaks over their eyes, so that they would not flinch when a Christian sword cut them down. No one sought quarter, and none was granted.
Suddenly Bohemond saw mailed knights all round him. Duke Godfrey leaned out of the saddle to embrace him; he had led the pursuit as soon as the Turks began to withdraw from the camp. He called out to inquire after the convoy, and Bohemond pointed to the road behind him.
There stood as many of the waggons as had survived the hurried journey. Their oxen grazed peacefully, as oxen will graze peacefully in the midst of any disaster. No man was near them, either Christian or Turk.
“I was in too much of a hurry to drive oxen myself,” said Bohemond, “so I got the Turks to do it for me. I knew they would drop them somewhere handy. Look, there are the last of the infidels, down by the river. Let’s go after them and kill those who hesitate before drowning.”
At the end of the day the pilgrims estimated that fifteen hundred Turks had fallen, and among them they found the bodies of nine eminent leaders. By supper time all the Christians were safe behind the palisades of their camp.
For the moment there was enough to eat, and knights went visiting among the pavilions. Tancred came to talk over the day’s fighting with his uncle.
“There was a time when things looked very bad here in the camp,” he said. “Duke Godfrey did more than anyone else to organize our defence. I was out with some engineers on the site where I plan to build my castle, and I had to ride right round Mount Silpius to get back. So you won’t hear much of the part played by the Apulians. Of course all sorts of rumours were flying about. Some of your light horse, grooms and such, fled from the convoy as soon as the fighting started. To excuse themselves they told us that you and Count Raymond had been killed, with all your knights. It might have been true, for all I knew. It may happen tomorrow, as it may happen to any of us. If it does, your remaining followers will probably seek my advice. What shall I tell them?”
“What will you do yourself?”
“Go on until I am killed, or until I have liberated the Holy Sepulchre. That’s what I vowed before I left Italy. But I have no right to order your followers to get themselves killed. Do you order it?”
“I do not. That’s an order I shall never give. Every knight, every warrior, is the guardian of his own honour. He must decide for himself whether to fight or whether to run away. It is wrong to compel a man to be killed for you, though sometimes in a bloody war it can’t be helped. If that happens it’s because the leader has made a mistake, but it may be too late to alter it. I always try to remember that my troops may be beaten, and that they ought to have some way of escape.”
“But we are bound by oath.”
“My dear Tancred, tell your confessor that you are bound by oath to commit suicide, and see what he answers. Take this case you mentioned. If Count Raymond and I had been killed with all our knights the remaining leaders would have decided for retreat; and that would release you from your oath. If I happen to get killed and the pilgrimage still continues, of course my followers will march with it. If the leaders decide on retreat my men retreat with the rest, and I hope you do also. That’s all the advice I can give you on a case that hasn’t happened yet.”
“Just one other point bothers me, uncle Bohemond. Don’t take offence. I must ask you. A good many pilgrims have suggested that if we win Antioch you will stay in it, instead of continuing to Jerusalem. I suppose there’s no truth in that?”
“Unless we win Antioch before next winter we shall all go home. We can’t stick it out here for three years, as our fathers stuck it out before Bari. I suppose you agree that’s reasonable? Now if I take Antioch, I myself and not the pilgrimage as a whole, I shall have to consider carefully the exact terms of my vow. I swore to fight the infidel until Jerusalem has been liberated, and to hear Mass in the Holy Sepulchre before I go home. If I am lord of Antioch I shall be fighting the infidel every day, and I shall also aid the pilgrimage. St. Simeon is our only way home, now that we cannot trust Alexius. We can’t go on to Jerusalem leaving a hostile Antioch behind us; and it will be as hostile in Greek hands as in Turkish. Some Frank must hold it. Why not I, who want it? One day before I go home, if ever I go home, I shall hear Mass in the Holy Sepulchre. My vow will be fulfilled to the letter.”
“Well, every knight is the guardian of his own honour, as you have just said. I see that when Antioch falls, if it falls, we must part.”
“I shan’t try to keep you; though you are my best knight, if indeed you are a knight of mine. I also think we should part. There won’t be room in Antioch for two knights of the Hauteville stock.”
“So that is cleared up,” said Tancred with a shrug. “If you can’t hold Antioch no Frank can; and some Frank must hold it. I shall do what I can to win it for you. Tomorrow I begin building my castle before St. George’s Gate.”
Later that evening the Turks, who also felt a strong attachment to holy places, crept quietly over the great bridge to bury their dead in an ancient infidel cemetery just north of the river. The pilgrims saw what they were doing, but did not come out to fight. In the morning Christian foot, protected by cross-bows, dug up the infidel dead. They piled their heads where the garrison of Antioch could see, for Armenians had told them that the mutilation of dead infidels caused their comrades great distress; the deluded fanatics believed that at the Resurrection they would rise in the condition in which they had been buried, instead of returning to Hell. The knights would not permit the pilgrim foot to inflict other, more amusing mutilations on the corpses, for one day their own bodies might fall into the hands of the enemy.
The foot gained an unlooked-for bonus. The Turks, still barbarian at heart for all their pretence of being cultured infidels, had buried their leaders with all their personal wealth. The pilgrims had not only a little food from St. Simeon; they had money to buy more from Armenian merchants.
Within a few days two castles were built. Raymond’s castle, by the infidel burial ground, commanded the northern end of the great bridge and kept the road to St. Simeon firmly in Christian hands. Tancred’s castle, a perilous post, blocked St. George’s Gate. No more convoys could get into Antioch, though single messengers might still climb over Mount Silpius.
By the end of April everyone felt more hopeful of victory. The weather was warmer, a great comfort to an army which had burned all the firewood within foraging distance. It was rumoured that the garrison of Antioch wa
s beginning to feel hungry. Tancred had snapped up the last caravan from the north, a long column of waggons and pack-animals collected by Armenian merchants. The Armenians lost all their possessions and barely escaped with their lives. Henceforth they must sell their wares to the pilgrims, for the Turkish market was closed to them. Many more native Christians were to be seen in the camp.
But news from the outside world was disturbing, so disturbing that the council of leaders met in special session to discuss it. The great Caliph of Baghdad, religious leader of all the infidels, had begun to gather an army of relief. It was under the command of Curbaram, the Caliph’s favourite general and the ruler of all Persia. He had enlisted horsemen from all the infidel world, as far as Khorasan and the borders of India. He would arrive by midsummer, as soon as he had conquered the castles held by Count Baldwin on the eastern bank of the Euphrates.
It was hard to find out what happened so far to the east, but by April news had seeped through that Baldwin was lord of the strong town of Edessa. He had married the daughter of its Armenian lord; soon after the people of Edessa rebelled against their ruler, murdered him, and installed Baldwin as his heir. There was a strong smell of treachery about the whole business, but no one had denounced Baldwin formally for treason to the lord who was said to have adopted him as a son.
Tancred, like most Apulians, took it for granted that Baldwin was capable of any villainy; but everyone agreed that he was a good knight who would defend the fortress which had so curiously come into his hands. That gave the besiegers of Antioch a little time in which to make up their minds; but only one decision was possible. When the council met Duke Godfrey announced it bluntly.
“Gentlemen, we are only just strong enough to fight the Turks at present in Antioch. To divide our forces is out of the question. It is doubtful whether we can defend ourselves against the great army of Curbaram. Certainly we can’t fight the two Turkish armies combined. So we must go back, at least as far as the mountains. That may be regarded as settled. The only question still open for our decision is whether we halt among the mountains until more pilgrims join us from Europe; or whether we wind up the whole enterprise and ask the Pope to dispense us from our vows. The Emperor supposed we would never liberate the Holy Sepulchre, and I am beginning to agree with him. What are your views?”
Amid a murmur of regretful agreement Bohemond got up to speak. “Let’s wait a week or so. Baldwin is no friend of mine or of my kin, but he can defend a castle. There is no immediate danger. But I want a firm answer to a question I have asked before: if I get us all into Antioch will you recognize me as lord of the town?”
“Why the devil should we?” asked Count Raymond. “Who besieged Antioch, Bohemond or the whole army of the pilgrimage? When we starved, when we fought the Turks, my men did not serve Bohemond. I have given him no oath. On the contrary he has sworn to serve the Emperor. The Emperor is the key to the whole campaign. Without him we can do no more. But we have all heard that he is somewhere in Anatolia with his mighty army, completing the conquest of those Turks who fled before us. If we take Antioch, let the Pope’s legate give it to whichever lord he thinks most suitable to rule it. I shan’t attempt to decide for him. It’s a matter for the Church. But before we take it we must seek help from the Emperor. I agree that there is no hurry. There is time to send a messenger to imperial headquarters. Once we know Alexius is marching to help us we can retreat just enough to join him.”
“Suppose he doesn’t come?” asked Bohemond.
“Then we must make other plans. But surely he will come. In any case we have another week or ten days. That is my suggestion, gentlemen. Send a message to the Emperor and wait for the answer. Since opinion is divided we ought to put it to the vote.”
“Who is entitled to vote on such a great matter?” asked Bohemond. “Every Count in the pilgrimage, or just those Counts here today? How many of us rank as Counts? That has never been decided. In a civilized country every man knows whether he has been born with a vote in the assembly or not, but in this pilgrimage we have never made up our minds. At this stage we can’t take a vote. Before evening we would be fighting one another. Gentlemen, with the welfare of the pilgrimage at heart I withdraw my proposal. I shall fight with the army so long as we stay here. Let us send a messenger to Alexius. If he joins us I myself will go back to Italy, since he is my foe and may very well murder me. But you and he together will liberate Antioch. I hope he pays you your due wages. I am not his mercenary soldier, so I shall not fight under his orders. Good day.”
Without looking back he walked to his pavilion.
After the leaders had decided to send yet another messenger to the Emperor they adjourned in some dismay.
Bohemond squatted on his folded blankets, for by now his pavilion was completely bare of furniture. That walk-out had been a fine gesture; and necessary, for if he had stayed longer he might have drawn his sword on the Count of Toulouse. But the future looked bleak.
If the other pilgrims sought the Emperor he must go back to Apulia. It was quite likely that he had no home, for some other Hauteville would have taken his fiefs. Why wouldn’t his comrades let him have Antioch? No one else wanted it as he did, no one else had been promised it by Alexius, no other Frank was so fitted to rule it. He spoke Greek, he understood orientals, he could plan a battle better than any other Count. But Raymond was his enemy, and that was just enough to prevent the council making any decision. Why had he come on this absurd pilgrimage? If he had stayed at home he would have conquered most of Italy by now. To kill Turks was a good thing, they were unpleasant people who needed killing; but it was not his personal duty. If it was a question of freeing Christians from infidel oppression Spain was a better place to do it. The Spaniards were decent western Franks, obedient to the Pope and willing to fight for their freedom. Greeks were schismatics who would never fight in any cause; Armenians would fight, but only each for his own hand. They did not deserve help from the west. He had been wasting his time, and there were not very many years of active campaigning before him; he was in his forty-fifth year, and he had no son to come after him.
Perhaps a comfortable monastery, with a decent winter climate, would be the best solution. It was lucky that he had never been tempted by women. He owed a duty to his followers. He must lead them home in safety. As soon as he was back in a sensible Frankish land he would hang up his sword before St. Michael on Monte Gargano and enter religion. He could read fluently, so they would make him a full choir-monk, perhaps a priest; he would not care to be a mere lay brother, at the beck and call of every literate monk. Probably he had not much of a vocation, but his will was strong enough to keep him to the rules. He would miss riding, and all the fussing over horses in the evening which was the favourite pastime of every good knight. But old age would put him out of the saddle one day, even if he remained a layman.
He was beginning to plan his journey home. When the Emperor had joined the pilgrimage he would lead his men towards the west, by one of the great roads made by the men of old. Before they reached the city they would swerve southward and sack some flourishing Greek port. With money they could buy a passage home on Italian ships. Then they would disperse.
It was the end of a dream. When he first heard of the pilgrimage he had hoped to found a strong fief in the east. Perhaps he could still make himself King of Italy; but first he would have to kill all his half-brothers, and the price was too high. He had it in him, he knew, to be a great commander. He saw what the enemy were about to do, he could see a whole battlefield, a whole countryside, something in his mind told him that exact moment to charge. Well, all that was over. It was possible that never again would he kill a man.
He squatted with his eyes on the ground, imagining the painted page of an office-book before them. In the cloister there would be hot sun and the sound of bees, but the great church was always cool and still within. His mother would be surprised to find him a monk, though she would approve. He still saw her from time to time, a very old l
ady; but he did not often think of her since she had left him so long ago, a child who still needed her. Life had been unfair to him. They had taken away his mother, and now they were going to take away Antioch. Self-pity is a very pleasant sensation, so long as you see it clearly for what it is.
A spearman stood in the entry to the pavilion, keeping a careful eye on a nondescript Armenian. “This man insists on seeing your lordship alone,” he said anxiously. “I have searched him for weapons, and he has promised me a gold piece if I bring him here. My lord, I need the money. Will you speak with him?”
“Make him pay in advance and then go away. I may as well gossip with local merchants as sit here thinking about Italy. My part in the war is nearly over and I have plenty of time to waste.”
Chapter XIV - The Towers of Antioch
The man who came in was a middle-aged Armenian; Bohemond had seen enough of the varied races of Syria to know that he was not a Greek or a local peasant. But he was not the kind of Armenian who usually came to the camp. There were two very different types of Armenian: the soft plump traders who looked, if that were possible, even more dishonest and shifty than they were; and the tall hawk-nosed mountaineers, who walked with long strides and looked undressed without a sabre and a beltful of knives. This man was a warrior.
He bowed with both hands at his breast, like a humble merchant; but he did it clumsily, as though he were unused to the gesture. After looking carefully round the pavilion to make sure they were really alone he spoke in Greek, in a very low voice.
Count Bohemond Page 24