“It’s nice to find someone in bed and alone,” said Godfrey cheerfully. “The confessors will be busy for the next day or two. But we are warriors as well as pilgrims, and one must make allowances. I might have known that you and Tancred would be living decently. It was an ugly sack, you know. Most of the burgesses are Christian, which makes it worse.”
“I am keeping my virginity for the King of France’s daughter. That saves me a lot of trouble when people offer me female captives. How are things going? When will the men be ready to fight? What news of Count Raymond? Is my banner still on the tower next the castle? Where is Curbaram?”
“What a lot of questions. All the wine has been drunk, and the men are ready to fight this minute. They may not know where to find the right banner, but they are full of courage. Antioch is a great prize, and we shall none of us forget that you found the way in. I think we can hold it. But there is a meeting of the leaders tomorrow, and you look as though you will be fit to attend. We can go into that then. I really came to see you about this feud with Count Raymond. You will be reasonable, won’t you? He’s in the emir’s palace, and Tancred says you want it. Let him be. At his age he likes comfort. His men hold the wall by the river, so it’s convenient for him. Your men hold all the upper walls and the street facing the castle, the only part where there is any fighting at present. When you are up we can arrange about reliefs for them. Get well soon, and don’t quarrel with Raymond.”
He bustled away on other urgent business. Duke Godfrey was the only perfectly honest and disinterested pilgrim leader who also did more than his share of the work. Robert of Flanders and Robert of Normandy, equally disinterested, thought only of fighting; Raymond, an efficient quarter-master, was covetous. Godfrey and the legate, and a few knights of the middle rank, made up the nucleus of honest hard-working men without whom any army will dissolve into a band of brigands. They ought to canonize Godfrey, or at least make him Lord of the Holy Sepulchre, thought Bohemond lazily as he turned over again to sleep.
On the morning of the 5th of June, Bohemond attended the council of leaders. He limped, leaning on a stick; but tomorrow he could wear mail. As they took their places, with Duke Godfrey as usual in the chair, everyone exchanged rumours about Curbaram. He had been seen—he had turned back—he was only a mile off. No one knew, but no one thought of anything else.
Then came a distraction. Two Greek priests ushered in the Patriarch of Antioch, wearing full pontificals including the crown-like Greek mitre. He was a gaunt old man who moved with difficulty; his face had been a good deal battered by the Turks. Since he spoke no language but Greek he could not take part in the discussion, but he was obviously entitled to sit among them.
An interpreter came over to Bohemond. “The Patriarch John sends you his special blessing. If the town fell the Turks were going to impale him on a stake. You got in so quickly they had no time to sit him on it before they fled. He owes you his life. As soon as the cathedral has been reconsecrated your priests may use it according to your western rite.”
“I believe they would have done that anyway,” Bohemond answered. “We Franks hold this place. But give my thanks to that holy confessor the Patriarch. As ruler of Antioch I shall respect his privileges.”
It was good to know that the clergy recognized his lordship. But so did all the other Syrians. Many of them supposed he was formally the leader of the whole Frankish army. His trouble would be to persuade his fellow-pilgrims to recognize that accomplished fact.
Duke Godfrey rose to give the latest intelligence of the enemy. “Curbaram will be here before sunset tonight. We must move all our baggage within the walls. Tomorrow we shall defend the place we attacked all winter. We owe it to Count Bohemond that we have a good wall to shelter us. If everyone does his duty we may still reach Jerusalem.”
Of course Raymond could not let that pass. “We are here because a traitor let us in. He happened to seek his bribe from Count Bohemond, either by chance or because he recognized Count Bohemond as a man accustomed to dealing in treason. We have been saved by Count Baldwin’s stout defence of Edessa. If Curbaram had reached here three weeks ago we would now be dead.”
Godfrey looked to Bohemond, who made no answer. What Raymond said was true in its way, and he was too tired for argument. If Baldwin held Edessa and was content with it, that was one rival out of the game.
Godfrey continued: “Gentlemen, we must see to the manning of our wall. Knights and cross-bows in the towers, I suppose, while the common foot bring in the baggage. There is a banner on nearly every tower, so we know who claims to defend it. South French and my men along the river, the Normans of France and Italy on the slopes of the mountain. Others fit in wherever they are wanted. Get that done by midday; it’s important. We ought to find food inside the town, though there doesn’t seem to be any forage for our horses. There’s no other business, and no time to waste. We meet again the day after tomorrow.”
As they dispersed Tancred came up to Bohemond. “Did you hear Godfrey? ‘We may reach Jerusalem?’ I suppose from time to time we have all thought of failure, but never before have I heard anyone speak of it in open council. You and I came oversea to die, either tomorrow or forty years hence. But I hope someone gets home to tell of our deeds.”
“The Count of Blois can tell of Dorylaeum, if he’s not too ashamed to open his mouth. He fought well until he felt hungry. But we must get the pilgrimage to move on, whether Jerusalem is liberated or not. How can I rule my fief of Antioch if all the great lords of the Franks are stuck in it? You and I must deal with Curbaram. That calls for skill as well as courage. But I’ll see the tail of his horse before winter, unless a Turkish arrow finds me first. Here I am in Antioch. If I win one more battle I shall get my rivals out of it. Think about Curbaram.”
By evening Curbaram had arrived. A huge Turkish army was encamped on the plain north of the river, where the pilgrims had been encamped since October. Next day Curbaram put a garrison of his own men in the castle, as could be plainly seen by pilgrims on the wall. They made probing attacks here and there, to find out whether all the defences were manned; but their main assault came downhill from the castle. After desperate fighting it was repelled by the Normans of Normandy and the Flemings, fighting on foot behind an improvised barricade. When plans were to be discussed everyone ignored the Duke of Normandy, scatter-brained and improvident. But in the forefront of a hot battle he was a hero. His men regarded him with affectionate contempt, knowing that he would be in no position to reward loyal service if ever he got back to Normandy; but no knight would give ground while such a paladin led him.
Altogether that was a very nasty day, though Bohemond stayed at home to nurse his wounded leg. Various Normans of Normandy or Apulia won great honour in the defence of individual towers; a rash sally from the lower town brought heavy casualties when the pilgrims retired in haste and jammed the unfamiliar gate; for an hour the Turks established themselves on a stretch of rampart and had to be expelled by a bloody counter-attack. That night the servants could find nothing to cook for supper.
In the dark a party of north-French knights escaped over the wall with ropes and fled on foot to St. Simeon. It was said that they sailed away on the last Frankish ships in the port, which was immediately occupied by infidels. But no one in Antioch really knew what was happening beyond the walls of the town.
Inside Antioch all the pilgrims were trying to buy food. Because Antioch had been sacked amid great confusion the leaders had been unable to collect a central store of provisions. Before the place fell the burgesses had been hungry, and most of their reserves had been wasted in the orgy of plunder. No rations could be issued, even if anyone was willing to take on the vacant job of the fugitive Count of Blois. There was an open market, in which fragments of horseflesh, even of horsehide, were sold at fantastic prices; for hundreds of horses were dying of starvation. Bohemond heard rumours of cannibalism; he did not believe them, but he recognized a symptom of grievous famine. An army where men whi
spered of cannibals was very far gone. In the streets miserable figures, both pilgrims and burgesses, squatted to wait for death.
Ten days later the mood had changed. Everyone who was not already dead of hunger talked about the miraculous relics which must save the pilgrimage. Hitherto no one had remembered that Antioch was on the fringe of the Holy Land. St. Peter had ruled the Universal Church from Antioch before he moved to Rome. It was sacred ground. Apostles, even Our Lord Himself, had been appearing in dreams to the most dissolute pilgrims.
“It’s a strange story,” Tancred told his uncle. “Among the south French is a poor pilgrim named Peter Bartholomew. He is tonsured but he can’t read, so he’s not exactly a clerk. His comrades say he is a notorious adulterer, but that doesn’t mean he tells lies. He told the legate, and also Count Raymond his lord, that St. Andrew the Apostle had appeared to him, to say that the lance with which St. Longinus pierced Our Lord on the Cross was hidden under the floor of the cathedral. They dug for it and they found it. Raymond has it now.”
“Of course he has,” Bohemond answered. “Wrapped round the lance was a charter, sealed by St. Andrew, appointing Raymond supreme commander of the pilgrimage, I suppose? Raymond never stops trying, I’ll say that for him. Do you believe this is a genuine relic? Does anybody?”
“The poor pilgrims believe in it, even those who know Peter Bartholomew. The legate asked some awkward questions, so I’m told, but he did not denounce it. Raymond pays great honour to the lance, and of course his knights follow him.”
“And you? What do you believe?”
“How can anyone believe—or disbelieve. St. Longinus pierced the side of Our Lord. That’s certain. He may have given the lance to St. Peter, and St. Peter may have brought it to Antioch. But why bury it under the floor of the cathedral? And where does St. Andrew come in? On the other hand, when the south French dug they found their lance.”
“An iron lancepoint, I suppose, not a complete weapon? Then this Peter could have brought it with him and dropped it into the hole. We can’t be sure of anything. I won’t go out of my way to venerate it, but I won’t scoff at it either. It’s neither here nor there. But the change in the spirits of the pilgrims is a fact. We must allow for it in our calculations. It’s the right time to fight our battle. Come up the mountain with me and we’ll look at the Turkish lines.”
As they walked on the ramparts they saw fires burning down by the river. Tancred exclaimed in alarm, but Bohemond told him that the houses had been deliberately set alight. “Half the pilgrims were skulking in those comfortable mansions when they should have been fighting Turks. The easiest way to get them out was to burn the houses over their heads. They aren’t afraid, just lazy. When they have nowhere to sleep they will fight well enough. Tut tut, I see the emir’s palace burning. I took great care to point it out to my men. I explained that it must be spared, since Count Raymond lodges there. It would be wrong to discommode the great Count of Toulouse. Now the fire has spread to it. A pity, but in war accidents happen.”
Tancred laughed.
Presently they reached the farthest tower in Christian hands, where a knight guarded the banner of Apulia. Below them burgesses worked to build a wall of mortared masonry, under the direction of Duke Robert’s Normans. Farther below lay the town and then the great Bridge Gate. Beyond it they could see the river and the old camp site, now held by Turks.
“A good day to plan a battle, bright sun and no mist. We can see everything,” said Bohemond.
“How do we fight without horses?” inquired Tancred lazily. “Tomorrow the last of them will be dead of hunger.”
“Then we fight on foot, naturally. For some of the knights it will be a new experience, but they came oversea to seek new experiences. If you are on foot how do you persuade a horseman to fight you, when he can ride away? That’s the problem. Soon we must fight, or die of hunger.”
They stared at the plain beyond the river, dusty with scurrying Turks, smudged by the sprawling tents of the nomads.
“That plain must be pretty foul,” remarked Tancred. “October to June—the latrines of a huge host—offal—dead horses—dead Christians for that matter. The Turks will die of sickness if they sit there through a hot August.”
“Antioch is no better. We shall have sickness here by July. There’s no time to lose, even if we can find something to eat.”
“I’ve got it,” said Bohemond a moment later. “We can make them stand and fight. That must be Curbaram’s own pavilion over there, with all those flags. There are the tents of his nobles round it. Those nomads keep all their wealth in their tents. Old Golden Nose said so, and it was proved at Dorylaeum. They won’t strike those tents in a hurry, especially if Curbaram himself is fighting. His women must be in his pavilion, and you know how they like to keep their women private. Say two miles from the Bridge Gate. We march out on foot against their camp. They stand to defend it. We knock them off their horses. There’s our battle.”
“There are a great many Turks. They will ride round behind and charge us in the rear,” Tancred objected.
“Not if we fill the whole plain as far as the mountains. If necessary we’ll fight in a hollow square. March on that pavilion and they must meet us. At close quarters they haven’t a hope, no matter how many they are. If our line breaks we are killed, but it’s our best plan.”
“Are you sure that is Curbaram’s pavilion?”
“Of course not. But we can send envoys to find out. Never mind what message they bear. A simple defiance if we can’t think of anything better. We’ll send holy men, not warriors. Than if the Turks don’t observe the laws of war our army will not be weakened.”
“It may come off, if everyone does as he is told. Let’s think it out. Uncle, you are Curbaram. I am Bohemond leading out the pilgrim host on foot. What’s your next move?”
From their airy height they discussed the projected battle, moving squadrons and clumps of spears as though they were angels leaning out of Heaven. It could succeed. If everyone did what he was told it must succeed. That was the flaw in it—the pilgrims must march and wheel and halt like the trained professional soldiers of the old Greek army. But the pilgrims were not in the habit of obeying orders, and there was no reason why they should obey orders coming from Bohemond.
At last the two Hautevilles came down into a town engrossed, not by the pressing Turkish threat, but by the manifestation of what was already known as the Holy Lance. Peter Bartholomew had moved into Count Raymond’s lodging, where he was living in pomp and luxury. The legate had finally come down in favour of the new relic, though he was careful not to vouch for it. In their next battle it would be the chief banner of the whole army. Meanwhile there would be three days of fasting, with special processions and appropriate Masses, in gratitude for its miraculous arrival.
Count Raymond bore it in these processions, and at night it was lodged in his portable chapel. That was one up to Count Raymond. On the other hand he was suffering from a flux, and might not be able to fight if the battle came soon. Bohemond went to lay his plans before Duke Godfrey.
No one else had a plan of any kind, except to die gallantly when the end came. That helped. The idea of sallying out from the shelter of their strong walls to give battle in the open was so crazy that it appealed to the streak of craziness that had brought each pilgrim from Europe in the first place. The common foot had complete faith in Bohemond as a commander, and would have followed him over a precipice; the lesser knights felt the same, so that only the leaders needed persuading.
At a special council summoned to discuss the plan the two Roberts, of Normandy and Flanders, supported it; both were brave honest men who wanted to end the crisis, and did not much care whether they died tomorrow. After the leaders had been wrangling for some hours Count Raymond withdrew, to take to his bed with a high fever. By the end of the meeting the other leaders had agreed to march out, and had further agreed that on the day of battle the whole army should obey Count Bohemond. As a climax to the mee
ting they went in public procession to the cathedral, where they took oath that they would fight until the Holy Sepulchre was free or until they were dead. Count Raymond was carried in a litter to swear; Tancred swore further that he personally would go on so long as forty knights would ride with him. Strictly speaking the oath was superfluous. They had all sworn as much before they left Europe. But they all felt the better for taking it.
The Count of Vermandois had suggested an excellent embassy to Curbaram. Let their principal envoy be Peter the Hermit. He was known among the infidels as a great leader of the Franks, so Curbaram would hear him; if the Turks did not respect the sanctity of an envoy Peter would get no more than he deserved for his attempted desertion. An Apulian knight would go with him to put his message into Arabic. This Herluin would behave very humbly, keeping in the background; he would probably get back, even if some misfortune befell Peter. He was an experienced veteran, who could tell at a glance whether that great pavilion was really the headquarters of the infidels.
On Sunday the 27th of June 1098 the embassy set out, and after a few hours returned safely. Curbaram had received them in person, listened courteously to their offer of safe-conduct if he would retire immediately, and answered with a courteous refusal. Sir Herluin was sure that the pavilion was the permanent dwelling of the famous emir, housing his women and his treasure. If the pilgrims attacked the Turks must stand to defend it.
After the leaders had heard Herluin’s report they decided to fight next morning. Count Raymond was too ill to be present, so for once there was no disagreement. The great moment came when Duke Godfrey turned to Bohemond and asked him to order the Christian line of battle.
“You are really seeking my advice? Well, I have been thinking about what we should do, so here is my plan. Remember that it is advice only. I am Bohemond son of Duke Robert, no more. It is not for me to give orders to valiant Dukes and Counts.”
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