by John Man
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a princess without a husband must be in need of a prince – acknowledged not by the princess, perhaps, but certainly by those with the power to choose the husband, for without a husband there can no heirs, so the kingdom is at risk. Constance had been ruler-in-name of Antioch since the age of four, when her father, Bohemond, lost his head in battle to the sword of Shirkuh, Saladin’s uncle. The little princess grew up under the regency of her mother’s father, Baldwin II, king of Jerusalem, and his successor Fulk, much to the distress of her mother, Alice, who had spent much of her life scheming to take over Antioch, and failing. After four years, Baldwin found Constance, now aged eight, a suitable, compliant husband, Raymond, the twenty-two-year-old prince of Aquitaine. Raymond was a legend for his bravery, good looks, charm and strength: they said he could crush a stirrup with one hand (which seems a silly way to prove one’s strength; a horseshoe, maybe, but why a stirrup?). Nine years later, at the age of seventeen, Constance bore the first of her three children, a son, named Bohemond after his grandfather. After fourteen years of marriage, Raymond was killed, leaving Constance a widow at twenty-two, under the thumbs of Baldwin III as official regent, her mother and the city’s Patriarch, Radulph, but in effect uncrowned queen of the city. Constance liked her independence, and refused three potential husbands. Four years later, into this power vacuum stepped our anti-hero, Reynald.
No one knows how he came to her attention, because he had been taking part in the siege of the city of Ascalon, an event that is worth a diversion. Ascalon was a formidable semicircle of inner and outer walls, towers and gateways, which had escaped capture in the First Crusade and would be vital if the Christians were to invade Egypt. Every now and then in history, some great city becomes a strategic doorway that must be kept locked or forced open, held or taken. When Kublai Khan advanced on southern China in 1268, Xiangyang was such a city. So was Verdun in the First World War, Stalingrad in the Second World War. For the Crusaders and the Muslims, Ascalon was one. It was a very tough nut: no port, no safe haven for invaders; lots of wells and cisterns for fresh water; four gates, squatting over mazes of little streets; and resupplied with arms, fresh troops and food four times a year by the Egyptians.
In mid-January 1153, an immense army gathered on the sandy fields outside the walls to begin a siege that would last seven months. The leaders were the top men of their time: the Patriarch of Jerusalem, archbishops from Caesarea, Nazareth and Tyre, bishops, abbots, princes and Knights Hospitaller and Templar,27 all inspired by the presence of the True Cross. The Christians, camped in tents and well supplied by markets with meat, cannibalized ships to make catapults and sheds under which they could re-landscape embankments. Among their machines was a huge siege-tower. Reynald was there as a mercenary – ‘he served the king for pay’, as the chronicler William of Tyre puts it.
The Hospitallers, also known as the Knights of St John, were named after the hospital in Jerusalem founded in 1023 to care for pilgrims. The Templars, founded in 1129, were a sort of police force to protect pilgrims on the way from the coast to Jerusalem. Both became highly effective, freebooting, well-financed groups of fighters.
William described events as if he had been present, though as a twenty-three-year-old studying in Europe he played no role in the action:
Volleys of mighty rocks hurled from the casting machines threatened to weaken the walls and towers and to overthrow from their very foundations the houses within the city. Great was the slaughter which resulted. With their bows and arrows, the soldiers in the moveable tower also wrought great destruction not only on the defenders who were resisting them from the top of the towers and walls, but also on those who were forced by necessity to move about the city.
So the inhabitants decided that the tower had to be destroyed, come what may. A special operations team risked their lives filling the space between the walls and the tower with wood, enough to make a massive bonfire, on to which they poured ‘pitch, oil and other liquids provocative of fire, anything which would make a fiercer flame’. But fate, luck, chance – God, if you happened to be Christian – was against them. An off-sea gale sprang up and drove the flames away from the tower on to the wall, igniting the wooden beams set into the masonry. That section of the wall collapsed in a heap of smoking rubble. Christian soldiers rushed to clamber in, intent not only on victory, but also booty, which was for most of them the only reason they were fighting. Self-interest ruled supreme. First into the breach were the Templars, forty of them, determined to make the city theirs, for ever and a day. They set guards on the breach to stop anyone else entering, and so lost what had been gained. The inhabitants, seeing that only a few had entered, took heart, attacked, killed the intruders and then sealed the breach with fallen beams and stone blocks. Luckily for them, the collapse had thrown rubble against the siege-tower, weakening it so much that no one dared use it. The city was saved, and the citizens took a grisly delight in their escape. As William relates, ‘the enemy, for our undoing, suspended the bodies of our slain by ropes from the ramparts of the wall, and, with taunting words and gestures, gave vent to the joy which they felt.’
What was to be done? King and prelates conferred. Some were for giving up; others argued that all the costs and deaths must not be in vain, that God was with them, that those who sought would find. After three days of argument, this was the faction that won. Trumpets called for renewed attack. And, somehow, it worked. William does not say exactly how, falling back on clichés about slaughter, confusion, injuries and woe, but the result was a truce, an exchange of bodies, burials and then, at last, the arrival of a delegation seeking terms. Two days later, on 22 August, the Muslim citizens filed out, and Ascalon was in the hands of the triumphant Christians. In procession behind the True Cross, they turned the main Islamic shrine into the Cathedral of St Paul.
Reynald was not there to see victory. He had returned to Antioch, 320 kilometres and ten days’ journey northwards, for in spring 1153, not long after the start of the seven-month siege, Constance decided to marry him. Baldwin III, king of Jerusalem and her guardian, agreed, thinking that at last Antioch would have a lord, who would at least take from him the task of defending the city. The marriage took place in secret, because Antioch’s top families, including the local Patriarch, disapproved of their princess, the most powerful woman in the Latin states, marrying an ordinary knight, a mere mercenary with a disreputable background.
The Byzantine emperor, Manuel, was not asked for his approval in advance, although he was Antioch’s nominal suzerain. But he would give it, he said, and add a reward in cash, if Reynald would act as enforcer against an Armenian warlord called Thoros (or Theodore), who lived by raiding the empire’s Christian subjects from his castle deep in the Taurus mountains in what is today southern Turkey. Armenia was a Christian enclave, but surrounded by Turkish-held territory, so Manuel was helpless. Reynald was happy to oblige, since it gave him a chance to extend his power-base and do what he did best, which was to fight. He was a man who never felt the touch of coloured silk, as one source put it, only chain-mail and leather. In 1156, he headed north, got to what was then Alexandretta and is now Iskanderun, fought Thoros, and either won a brilliant victory or was forced into shameful retreat, depending on which of the two sources one believes. In any event, Thoros survived and fled back into his mountain fastness, while Reynald claimed his cash reward. Manuel, however, refused to pay, sticking to the letter of the agreement and pointing out that Thoros’s castle remained untaken.
Reynald, furious, decided to take what he claimed was rightfully his, with the help of his old enemy, Thoros, who now, suddenly, became his ally. There was an ideal target lying 100 kilometres off the coast – the island of Cyprus, a useful naval base for Rome since the first century and part of the Byzantine Empire for the last 700 years. Cyprus, ‘whose name excites the ideas of elegance and pleasure’,28 was a jewel, well protected from the wars that had been ravaging the mainland for as long as anyone could remember. Wi
th its ancient forests and hard-working farmers, it was rich in fruit and copper and well-endowed churches. And since the emperor’s armies were employed fighting off challenges on the mainland, Cyprus had few defences. No enemies threatened it. No one dreamed that destruction would come not from an enemy but from a treacherous imperial vassal. For Reynald, it was a plum ripe for the picking. His only problem was that he needed to fund an invasion force, and he didn’t have the cash.
Edward Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chapter 60.
His answer lay to hand, in the form of Antioch’s old, influential and wealthy Patriarch, Amaury (Amalric in a different version of his name, though not to be confused with the king of Jerusalem). The story is told by two historians, William of Tyre and John Kinnamos, who differ slightly in detail. First, Reynald asked the Patriarch for money, but was refused, not surprisingly, because the Patriarch considered Reynald an upstart and said so, loudly. According to William of Tyre, he ‘often expressed himself rather freely, both in public and in private, about Renaud [Reynald] and his doings.’ Amaury was also rather free in other ways, with ‘somewhat licentious habits’, as William puts it. Reynald decided on a vicious revenge. He had Amaury seized, stripped, beaten, and then, ‘since summer was at its height, anointing his wounds with honey, he left him to be burnt by the sun. So wasps, bees, flies and other blood-drinking insects settled on his entirely naked body and sucked his blood. At this the man gave way, offering to yield all his wealth to [Reynald].’ That is John Kinnamos’s version. William is less dramatic. The old man is imprisoned, but not beaten, before being exposed to the midday sun, and only his head is smeared with honey. But it’s still an appalling act, for which Reynald is reprimanded by the king of Jerusalem. Both writers mention that Reynald tried to make amends, either by reclothing the Patriarch and leading him through the streets on horseback, or by returning at least some of the goods he had seized. Amaury was not going to risk more torture. He fled to Jerusalem.29
This account seems to me the best way of making a narrative of a series of events – Thoros’s revolt, Reynald’s role, torturing the prelate, raiding Cyprus. Sources disagree – the order of events is not always clear; but no interpretation exonerates Reynald.
Whatever the details, Reynald now had enough money to raid Cyprus, along with his new ally, Thoros. Their force utterly overwhelmed the defenders, under the leadership of a nephew of Emperor Manuel. No one recorded the details of this swift and brutal assault, so generalities will have to do. Over three weeks, his soldiers destroyed cities, wrecked fortresses, cut off the hands, feet, noses and/or ears of the more fortunate inhabitants, broke into monasteries and nunneries, stole treasures, ‘and shamefully abused nuns and tender maidens. Although the precious vestments and the amount of gold and silver which he carried off were great, yet the loss of these was regarded as nothing in comparison with the violence done to chastity.’ Having driven a crowd of leading citizens – prelates, monks, landowners, merchants – down to the shore, the invaders forced them on to the ships. Flush with booty, they headed for home, where Reynald demanded a vast ransom for his hostages, releasing them only when it was paid. Even so, William writes, ‘within a short time all the wealth which had been so wickedly acquired was dissipated.’
Reynald could not act like this – torturer, traitor, pirate, thief, rapist, extortionist – and expect to escape punishment from the emperor. John Kinnamos describes what happened next. In the autumn of 1158, Manuel set out on campaign with an immense army to sort out several problems: the rebellious Thoros, Reynald in Antioch, King Baldwin in Jerusalem, the ambitious Nur al-Din, busy trying to extend his rule from Damascus. All threatened to destabilize the emperor’s eastern and southern borders. All needed to be controlled, if possible by diplomacy, if not then by force. Only then would he be in a position to confront his real challengers, the Seljuk Turks.
Having failed yet again to catch Thoros – who was warned of the imperial approach by a pilgrim and fled – Manuel set off for Antioch to deal with Reynald, accompanied by an international delegation of envoys from Asia, Syria, Turkey, Armenia and the Crusader states. What was Reynald to do? His senior aide, the archbishop of Latakia in Syria, advised him: eat humble pie on an epic scale. Reynald agreed. He went out to meet the emperor, sending the archbishop on ahead to plead his cause, which the archbishop did persuasively enough to get Reynald a hearing. Lord and vassal met in a town on the ever-shifting frontier, on what is now the Ceyhan river in southern Turkey, spanned then and now by a nine-arched bridge.30
The river was then the Pyramus, on which stood the city of Mopsuestia, present-day Misis.
Reynald played the penitent as if his life depended on it. Certainly his position as prince of Antioch did. To the astonishment of the assembled diplomats, having put himself centre stage in a rent-a-crowd of pseudo-monks, he ‘removed the covering from his head, bared his arms up to his elbows, and going unshod through the city with a multitude of monks, he appeared before the emperor.’ In his left hand, he carried a sword by the point, ready for offering as a symbol of submission. The emperor was seated on a dais, surrounded by the ranks of immense, fair-haired Varangian guards,31 ‘tall as palm trees’, recruited from descendants of the Scandinavians who had traded and fought their way down the Volga. Reynald prostrated himself far from the imperial tent, as if not daring to approach, while ‘the monks who were not monks, unshod, with bared heads, approached the emperor. All, bending the knee, wept tears from their eyes and held out their hands.’ At first, the emperor refused to acknowledge Reynald, lying in the dirt, but eventually ordered him to advance. ‘Moved by his coming in said fashion, he forgave him his offence, while he [Reynald] bound himself with oaths to many things’, namely to hand over his citadel and supply soldiers when asked, and to appoint a Greek Patriarch in Antioch – i.e. one of Manuel’s men – instead of a Latin one. Having survived with his body and position intact, if not his reputation, Reynald returned to Antioch.
Originally, Varangians (from Old Norse varar, a pledge) were Swedes recruited for service in Russia. They were employed as imperial bodyguards in Constantinople to avoid the possibility of disloyalty associated with local troops.
For the emperor, that was one problem solved. Another was Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, who was equally appalled at Manuel’s approach and the possibility of losing his kingdom. On the other hand, he had done Manuel no harm and chose to charm his way to peaceful co-existence. It worked well. Manuel befriended the young king, who managed to mediate peace with Thoros. In April 1159, Manuel made a processional entry into Antioch, wearing chain-mail beneath his silks in case of an assassination attempt. He needn’t have worried. The people adored him. He paraded on horseback through the narrow streets with Reynald humbly holding his bridle. Even old Amaury was there, ready to forgive Reynald. The Greek Patriarch idea was quietly forgotten. Amaury got his old job back. Friendship reigned supreme.
And after a week of festivities, Manuel decided to leave his enemy Nur al-Din in peace. A show of force was enough. It wasn’t worth starting a war to retake Syria when there were far more serious enemies to cope with – conspirators at home and the Turks abroad. Gifts were exchanged, prisoners freed by the thousand, and Manuel headed home.
So there could have been some sort of balance of power in the region. But Reynald could not leave well enough alone. In the autumn of 1160, spies told him that some 150 kilometres northwards, just over the border with the Seljuks, there were farming communities with many flocks. Their pastures were on the Aintab plateau, which rolls between the Taurus mountains and the Euphrates. The peasants were Christian, but that did not bother Reynald. He knew the area, at least by reputation, because ten years before many of the Christians of Edessa had fled across it to Antioch to escape their new Muslim masters, Zangi and his heir, Nur al-Din. Crucially, so his informants said, the farmers and their flocks were unguarded and easy targets. So he set off, with 120 cavalry and 500 eager foot-soldiers, who duly seized all t
hey could.
But it was a set-up. The same informants passed on both the news of Reynald’s departure and his target to the governor of Aleppo, Nur al-Din’s foster-brother, Majd. A raiding party set off north to ambush Reynald.
Warned of Majd’s approach, Reynald and his men argued: should they fight or flee? Reynald, always the headstrong warrior, refused to abandon his stolen cattle, sheep and camels. But the flocks for which he fought were an impossible burden. Reynald’s men were outnumbered and he was captured, along with thirty others. He was a valuable catch. All aristocrats were worth keeping, so that the captors could exchange them for some financial or political advantage: a ransom, a city, a captive held by the other side. Shoved on to a camel, his hands tied behind him, Reynald was led off to prison in Aleppo.
There he would remain, while he and his captors awaited payment of an immense ransom, to be negotiated. He had, it seemed, vanished from the earth, leaving Antioch in the hands of its Patriarch, Amaury, and a reputation for violence and treachery.
Only in middle age would he get a chance to indulge both once again. In 1176, finally, after sixteen years, a deal was done, arranged by Damascus’s vizier, Gumushtegin. He freed Reynald in a fit of generosity towards the Franks for saving him from Saladin, despite public protests that such a dangerous man should never be released. The cash helped. The more-than-royal ransom paid by the Christians was 120,000 dinars, 380 kilograms of gold coins – about £17 million (or $26 million) at today’s prices. Princes had been freed for less. Back then, it was enough to run a large castle for three years.32
Take the immense castle of Saphet (Safed), in northern Israel, 11 kilometres north of the Sea of Galilee. Built by 850 workmen and 400 slaves, the annual running cost came to 40,000 dinars.
Saladin was back in far-off Cairo, having recently reached a settlement with the Assassins, totally unaware of what was brewing in his homeland, when Reynald walked out of Aleppo, free at last, but bitter as hell and thirsting for revenge on all Muslims. ‘A third and final period of his life was about to begin,’ as his biographer Gustave Schlumberger writes, ‘more fantastic, stranger and yet more brilliant . . . which would end in its turn in the most dramatic of catastrophes.’