by Paul Doherty
‘Eleanor,’ he tightened his grip, ‘before we begin this, remember! Trust me because I love you.’ And not waiting for an answer, he walked back into the darkness.
An arrow struck the earth, followed by a warning call; flames flashed as fire cressets fluttered. Yes, that was how it began, Eleanor reflected in her chronicle, their dangerous venture into Antioch. The arrow embedded deep in the ground before them was followed by a torch thrown to spread a pool of light. It happened so swiftly she had little time to reply, let alone reflect on what Theodore had just said. He now whispered at them to stop. He put down his baggage and grisly burden and walked slowly forward with Simeon. They both extended their hands in the sign of peace and shouted hoarsely in the lingua franca. A voice rang out, and Theodore answered.
‘Deo Gracias,’ he whispered and picked up his bundles. ‘At least they will accept us.’
They walked over the makeshift bridge of boats, stumbling on the wet surface, and slowly approached the main gate. They heard a creak and another torch was flung out. Again a voice shouted. Theodore ordered them to stop. In the flickering light Eleanor could make out the massive reinforced gates, the iron studs gleaming through the steel portcullis lowered in front of it. To the right and left of these rose fortified towers, lamps glowing at their arrow-slit windows. The night breeze was tinged with the smell of burning oil from the cauldrons ready on the battlements. At the base of each tower was a doorway, narrow and thin, its steps hacked away. The door to the right opened, and a voice shouted an order.
‘One by one,’ Theodore whispered.
They approached the door. Each had to hand over their baggage before being roughly grasped and hauled up inside. Eleanor, confused, staggered in the darkness, and a hand steadied her. A pitch torch flared, the shadows danced, a brazier crackled. Eleanor stared round the grim chamber with its rough walls and dirty floor. She glimpsed a dark bearded face, the glint of a spiked helmet, the flash of white head cloths. The sinister clatter of steel echoed. A hand stroked her breast. A rough voice barked with laughter, followed by a chatter of tongues. They were bundled into another room. Eleanor was concerned about Imogene, who looked confused and terrified. Little wonder: dragged from her tent, that grisly, violent meeting with Jehan and his two lieutenants, and now this.
The chamber they entered was ill-lit and cold. An officer, his head framed by a chain-mail coif, his damascened helmet on the table before him, shoulders draped by a dark blue cloak over an armoured breastplate, was warming his hands above a chafing dish. Around the room lounged men, crouching or lying down, playing knucklebones, whispering amongst themselves or half asleep. They rose as Theodore’s party entered. One of them muttered a joke; a few laughed. Two of the soldiers drew their curved swords and daggers. The officer beckoned Theodore closer and spoke quickly in the lingua franca. Theodore replied. Now and again the officer’s cold black eyes shifted to Eleanor, who caught her own name being mentioned. Theodore kept pointing to her, and with a flick of his finger dismissed Imogene and Simeon as mere nobodies. The conversation continued. All four were abruptly searched, and Theodore’s weapons taken, as was the grisly bundle. When the three severed heads, eyes blindly staring, lips bloody and parted, rolled out across the floor, the officer gave a brief smile. He rose and kicked all three heads to one of his soldiers, who picked them up and put them in a reed basket. The officer returned, leaning against the table, arms crossed. He stared hard at Theodore and the questioning began again. Abruptly, the tension eased. The officer was laughing, poking Theodore in the chest, nodding; he even turned and smiled at Eleanor, then he gestured to the far corner. They went and squatted down, making themselves comfortable.
‘Don’t talk,’ Theodore whispered in Latin. ‘Except about what we are supposed to be, deserters from the Army of God.’
‘I . . .’ Imogene’s eyes rounded as she tried to speak.
‘Trust me, Imogene,’ Eleanor hissed. ‘For God’s sake hold your peace.’
‘I know him.’ Theodore smiled and gestured at the officer, who was now sitting at the table talking to one of his men. ‘We fought in the same troop some years ago. In fact,’ he clapped his hands and gestured around, ‘I am sure they all know me.’ Again he lapsed into Latin. ‘Keep your peace, do exactly what I tell you. Don’t talk unless I say.’
The officer shouted an order. A man left and came back with a bowl containing a mixture of meat and hot peppery sauce, as well as a jug of what smelt like curdling milk. They shared this out amongst themselves and had hardly finished when the officer strolled across. He snapped his fingers, gesturing at them to rise, and they followed him out of the chamber, down a narrow passageway and on to a slippery cobbled lane. A well of inky darkness, filled with slinking shapes and strange smells, greeted them. On both sides of the lane, the dusty walls of buildings reared up to the sky, so close they almost touched, leaving a narrow slit above them. With a clink of armour, the officer and his escort led them along this twisting byway. No glimmer of light showed from door or window, nothing except the lantern horns of their escort. A deathly silence held, as if they were crossing some City of the Dead. The lane descended more steeply. They stumbled down broken steps and across rough cobbles. On either side rose buildings with small windows high up in the decaying walls drenched with fetid-smelling liquids, the slimy moss, dirt and grime glittering in the light of the lanterns. Small doors were set deep in these walls, murky openings leading down to gloomy cellars, the dwelling places of vermin. Out of these cellars billowed the stench of rotting garbage and decaying excrement. The smell of dead rats, an odour Eleanor was used to from the camp, hung heavy and foul. They turned a corner and were almost pushed into the downstairs room of what looked like a hostelry or tavern. The officer led them across this into a rear chamber. He gestured at Theodore, then left. The door was not locked. There was a cesspit outside, and more food – fruit, dried bread and brackish water – was brought. Theodore, whispering swiftly in Latin, made it very clear that they would be spied on: the chamber walls probably had eyelets and listening holes. He then dominated the conversation, talking loudly in the lingua franca about how pleased he was to be in Antioch, eager to sell his sword to his new masters. Eleanor, lying next to Imogene, pressed her lips against her companion’s ear. She whispered in quick, short sentences how they had decided to flee the Army of God. They were now safe, and Imogene must not to do anything to alert suspicion. Imogene, of course, had a spate of questions, but Eleanor refused to answer, turning on her back to secure some sleep.
The following morning the officer returned. They were to be seen by Yaghi Siyan himself, the Governor of Antioch. Imogene was now openly resentful at what had happened, though she quickly realised that if she wished to survive she would have to comply. Nevertheless, the dark glances and the muttering under her breath clearly informed Eleanor that she no longer had a friend. The officer also returned their possessions, including Imogene’s precious box and Theodore’s weapons. The Turk was even friendlier than the previous evening, Theodore’s desertion being regarded apparently as a glittering prize. He took them out into the streets. They had to shield their eyes for a while; the clouds had broken and the sun was strengthening. The officer was apparently under strict instructions to show these important deserters how strong Antioch was. The narrow streets he led them through teemed with men of many nationalities, all busy about their various affairs. They entered the great square, thronged with market stalls under their striped awnings offering bread, rice, meats already cooked and roasted in stews, together with pheasant and partridge, as well as fruit and vegetables including heaps of ripe watermelons. The officer bought slices of these and offered them round. The sweet juice tasted delicious, refreshing Eleanor’s mouth and throat. Further on, stalls displayed silks, rubies, pearls, cloths and a wide range of spices. Deeper into the city they passed parks and paradises with graceful names such as ‘the Sweet Green’ and ‘the Oasis of Fruitfulness’. In between these lay the trade quarters of th
e city: weavers, ironworkers, goldsmiths, potters, bowl-makers, tile-makers, craftsmen of every description.
The morning air was still cool, but already the din and clatter of the city was ringing out. People looked well fed and content. Eleanor’s heart sank. The Army of God was apparently having little effect, a fact the officer loudly proclaimed as he gestured at the stalls piled high with produce. To achieve anything, Eleanor reflected, each of Antioch’s gates had to be closely besieged. They entered the wealthy quarter with its well-paved squares and streets. The fine buildings, decked in blue and gold tiles, overlooked elegant drinking fountains, richly decorated pools and elaborate bathhouses. High above all these loomed the minarets like watchful sentinels over the blue-domed mosques, their gleaming brickwork laced with elegant script done in turquoise and navy blue.
At last they reached the square stretching up to the ruler’s palace, its buildings almost hidden by the luxurious greenness of its many orchards. Only here was the normal bustle of the city shattered by a gruesome scene. A spy, so the officer informed them, had been caught and was about to be executed. The unfortunate, bound hand and foot, was being dragged face down at the tail of a horse across the cobbled square, backwards and forwards until his body and face were torn to shreds. In places the blood swirled in puddles or congealed between the stones as the condemned man was reduced to nothing but a bloody rag bouncing behind the horse’s hooves. The officer waited, eager to create a lasting impression upon his guests, before he crossed the square and led them through an ornamental gate with panels of mosaic faience and polished copper. Guards in brightly coloured quilted armour, soft boots on their feet, with turbans or spiked helmets over chain-mail coifs, patrolled every entrance. Others, Mamelukes in lamellar hauberks and breastplates, stood in recesses, armed with kite-shaped shields and wickedly pointed spears.
They went down cool, shimmering-white passageways, colonnades and porticoes brilliantly decorated in eyecatching floral patterns of blue, yellow, white and green. Scrolling vegetal decorations and elegant ochre calligraphy caught the eye. Some of the walls were decorated with glorious murals displaying green hexagons, or cranes, the birds of heaven, in full flight. Sunlight poured through fretted windows of coloured glass. Fountains splashed in bowls where red apples bobbed. Here and there, as Simeon later explained to Eleanor, were beautifully carved inscriptions to make the passers-by reflect, verses such as: ‘The tomb is a door which everyone must enter’, and ‘The Prophet of God, peace upon him, said “Hurry with prayer before burial and hurry with repentance before death.” ’
Eleanor found the contrast with the dark, damp, evil-smelling Frankish camp almost breathtaking. Rooms were warmed by rotund copper drums filled with burning charcoal and crammed with pouches of herbs that burst in the heat to exude the fragrance of the most exotic garden. She was surprised, too. Old images, impressions, thoughts and ideas were being swiftly destroyed. The Turks were not barbarians. In many ways, they reminded her of the Byzantines of Constantinople: cultured, sophisticated and courteous. Certainly fearsome and bloodthirsty in battle, but, she reflected ruefully, so were Hugh, Godefroi and Theodore. Undoubtedly these chambers and halls represented the luxury of the great lords of Antioch, but they were a sharp contrast to the dirty, freezing-cold manors and castles of the Franks.
Eventually they were ushered towards the Halls of Audience, their walls decorated by a technique known as thousand-leaves tracing, which secretly contained sacred names on tiles of turquoise within borders of navy blue. In the waiting chambers stood merchants bringing baskets of goods for the governor: nutmegs, cloves, mace, cinnamon and ginger. The sweet smell of these costly spices drifted everywhere. In other chambers traders waited to offer cloth, glass, metalwork, silk, taffeta, fur and ermine. Around the various doors clustered a horde of servants, cup-bearers, messengers, singers and zither players.
Yaghi Siyan held court in an inner chamber, its walls and floor an ivory colour; hence its name, the ‘Hall of the Pearl’. The governor lounged on a small mattress stuffed with flock and covered with blue and silver embroidered cloth, which stretched along the dais. On either side of him squatted his leading officers, all dressed in open dark cloaks over dazzling white gowns. Some wore turbans; others let their hair hang free. At first glance, all looked powerful and forbidding, with their dark or olive-coloured faces, glittering eyes, black, grey and white moustaches and beards. Only Yaghi Siyan carried a weapon: a curved dagger in an exquisitely embroidered scabbard thrust through his waistband. Around the chamber stood his personal guards, clad in dark red turbans around silver damascened spiked helmets, glittering chain mail under blue cloaks, their hands resting on the hilts of drawn sabres. Theodore, Simeon and Eleanor were summoned to sit on cushions before the dais. Imogene knelt behind them.
Yaghi Siyan propped himself up against the blood-red cushions. He looked strange: a large-domed, balding head with protuberant ears, and a white moustache and beard that straggled down to his waistband. He studied Eleanor closely, his popping eyes bright with interest, then turned back to Theodore to begin the questioning. Now and again he would turn and smile at Simeon. Eleanor wondered wildly if the scribe was what he claimed to be or, in truth, a Turkish spy deliberately placed in the Army of God. The interrogation was swift and intense, broken now and again by Yaghi Siyan raising his hand so that soft-footed mutes could serve goblets of ice sherbet and dishes of sugared almonds. Eleanor later discovered that once food had been offered and taken, no harm would befall them. Theodore also told her how Yaghi Siyan’s inquisition was easy because he simply told the truth, whilst the governor’s benevolence towards Simeon was due to the scribe’s desertion being further evidence of the Franks’ worsening situation.
Yaghi was keen to learn about the high councils of the Army of God. Theodore eagerly listed a litany of woes: the desertion of Count Baldwin to Edessa, the secret withdrawal of so many towards the coast, division amongst the leadership, the shortage of food, the depletion of livestock, especially horses and pack animals, the lack of an overall commander, the sickness of Count Raymond and the paucity of means to maintain a blockade against all the city gates. This proved delightful news to the Turks, Yaghi Siyan and his council nodding in gleeful appreciation.
Theodore also convinced them because he spoke passionately, describing things as they were rather than how he secretly hoped they might be. In addition, what the Greek said seemed to fit with what Yaghi Siyan had learnt or wished to believe. Theodore was very careful not to press the matter. He made no attempt to discover where the governor had gained his news. After all, that would not have been difficult to explain. Two of Antioch’s main gates had been left unguarded so spies could enter and leave almost at will. Indeed, as Theodore had confided to Eleanor, the greatest danger facing them was that some spy in the Army of God might create suspicion about their desertion and pass this information along. In the end, however, Yaghi Siyan was satisfied.
‘The Franks,’ he declared, ‘will be overwhelmed, drowned in a sea of destruction, consumed by the fire of perdition.’
The governor then made his greatest mistake. He committed Theodore and his party to the care of an Armenian noble named Firuz, who sat on his right: a tall, elegant man with deep-set eyes, a sharp pointed nose and full, rather protruding lips. Firuz wore a white turban and a sleeveless brocade coat over a dark cream gown. He rose at Yaghi Siyan’s gesture and indicated to Theodore and his party to follow him. Yaghi Siyan, however, was not finished. He put his hand beneath a cushion and tossed Theodore a small purse of silver, which the mercenary deftly caught. This provoked laughter. The other councillors bowed towards Yaghi Siyan and rose to clasp Theodore’s hand, Eleanor, Simeon and Imogene they simply ignored, though as a courtesy, Yaghi Siyan whispered compliments about Theodore’s wife being ‘pretty’.
They left the palace still escorted by the officer, who introduced himself as Baldur, a captain of Turcopoles. He was apparently on the most cordial terms with Firuz, who, as they made
their way through the city, introduced himself as Armenian by birth and commander of two towers known as ‘The Twin Sisters’ to the south-east of Antioch on the slopes of Mount Silpius. Firuz led them there through the markets and bazaars, across squares where scholars squatted with their backs to a marble cistern as they disputed over matters of philosophy. They went along streets and alleyways, stepping aside for cavalcades of soldiers, men in armour, their ponies dark with sweat, foam bubbling on their bridles. Firuz, like Baldur, was determined to demonstrate the power of Antioch. He took them down market lanes reeking of hide and oils, where sallow-faced men clad in dark fur robes touted for business. Fires roared before the doors of shabby houses; quarters of mutton were being roasted and the traders’ children offered wooden platters of the cooked meat piled high with rice and barley cakes. Customers could buy these and eat whilst they gathered round cotton booths where shadow puppets wiggled and strutted against lighted sheets.
Eventually they reached the city outskirts and climbed the trackway skirting Mount Silpius. On either side rose dark green poplars. Eleanor noticed how, apart from Baldur’s two lieutenants, they now had no military escort. The Twin Sisters rose square before them, their turreted tops overlooking the curtain wall, the postern gate between them being bolted and barred, firmly blocked up. Firuz explained how it was of little use; Yaghi Siyan preferred to keep open the St George Gate for sallying out in sudden attack as well as receiving supplies.
Firuz and his wife lived in one tower, his kinsmen, servants and retainers in the other on the far side of the postern gate. The interior of the tower was very similar to those of Compiègne: rough, undressed stone with a spiral staircase leading to the upper floors. Nevertheless the chambers themselves were splendid. The walls, plastered and lime-washed, were hung with rose-coloured, silver-tasselled tapestries and brilliantly embroidered cloths, whilst woollen rugs lay strewn across the floors. All the windows on the inside were glass-filled; those on the outside, overlooking the walls, were covered with wooden shutters or strips of hardened horn. Candlesticks, spigots and lantern horns provided light, whilst copper braziers gave off perfumed warmth.