by Simon Acland
The History Don watched this exchange with glee. “Just wait for what is coming. I am sure I know what happens in the next chapter. The Christian chronicles are fascinating about the Battle of Antioch, but they were all too closely involved – like Raymond d’Aguilers – or had too much of a vested interest for their accounts to be trusted. Only the Moslem historians – Ibn al-Athir in particular – give a credible explanation of what must have happened. You won’t be pleased by the Christian chicanery and deceit that went on!”
The Best-Selling Author now looked at the History Don with some annoyance. What writer likes his reader to anticipate his plot?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A WICKED PACK OF CARDS
If I had known, when I left Cluny, full of idealism for Pope Urban’s holy war, that I would have fraudulently used religious belief to attain my ends, I might have chosen to stay in my dull life of prayer. Why did my God not warn me? Why did He not make me stay a monk?
As the state of our army – if it could still be called an army – became worse, the squabbling princes called a council. Around a table in the Palace of Antioch occupied by Count Raymond sat a group of desperate men: Bohemond, stooped and weary from his valiant efforts in the van of the fighting; Godfrey grumbling hungrily; Bishop Adhemar, the image of a calm churchman with resignation in his face; Raymond himself, his single eye glinting dully beside his hollow socket. Even Tancred’s red fires were burning low, though the day before he had quietly sortied with ten comrades and returned bearing six Moslems’ severed heads, which now adorned a row of spears in front of his lodgings. The men who stood like me behind the high backs of their princes’ chairs looked no better. I could only imagine that I looked the same.
“We cannot leave the shelter of these walls and give battle in the plain,” said Bohemond. “Our men are too weak, their morale is too low. Kerbogha’s host is too strong. We have no horses for our knights. They are reduced to common footsoldiers. We would just be cut to pieces.”
“So you’d have us stay here and starve,” growled Godfrey, “Why only yesterday my steward gave three marks of silver for a nanny goat old enough to be my mother. For all I know it is the last goat to be had in this whole city. Now our men poison themselves by digging up any roots they can find and boiling them up with old leather.”
Raymond glared across at Bohemond. “Ni! I’ll not leave this part of the city. My Provençals won it. I’d rather die here than hand it back to anyone, whether Moslem or Norman.”
Bishop Adhemar quickly intervened, “My Lords, we must not argue amongst ourselves. Remember that our cause is just. We have the Lord Our God on our side. He will show us a way, as He has done before. We must make penance and pray, and He will answer our prayers.”
For all the Bishop’s wise words, the council of war broke up in recrimination and disagreement. With Bohemond and Godfrey, allies still, I left the Palace to walk back north towards our respective lodgings.
“Our arms are too weak,” complained Godfrey. “If only we could find a powerful weapon to rout the Moslems.”
“Perhaps the pious Bishop is right,” said Bohemond, “Perhaps it will take a miracle to save us from this mess. The pact we swore will be wasted – Antioch will be a grave for us both, no fiefdom for me, and you will never see Jerusalem, much less rule there.”
The two princes’ words coalesced in my head in a flash of inspiration.
“My Lords, if a powerful weapon and a miracle are what we need, could we not mix them together? If we were to find a great holy relic…a sign that victory would be ours…could morale not be raised to put fighting spirit back into our men for all their weakness? Perhaps a martial relic…”
I thought back to Alamut and the white spears carried by Hasan-i Sabbah’s guard, and further back to the treasures of Haghia Sophia.
“…like the lance used by Longinus to pierce Our Lord Jesus’ side on the Cross? Accompanied by a vision telling that those who followed it into battle could not be defeated? Given credence by Raymond and the other princes, this sign could reinvigorate the army and give us all renewed hope.”
Bohemond’s mouth opened but, before my idea could be dismissed out of hand, Godfrey intervened.
“And then perhaps a sortie would stand some chance, if we could fragment Kerbogha’s diverse force. Hugh, what genius! But to convince the others, especially Raymond, the lance will have to be discovered by one he trusts. Is there anyone amongst his Provençals whom we can enlist to our cause…?” Godfrey mused for a few moments. “I think perhaps I do know a man, greedy and resourceful, one Peter Bartholomew. He sells me some of the sorry meat I have been eating. He seems to have a knack at nosing out supplies, and little loyalty to his own lord. Instead of bearing what passes for food to Raymond he brings it here, knowing that I will pay him better. He is no fool and he bargains well.”
Plainly Peter Bartholomew had worked out that Godfrey was his best market, for he was waiting in our courtyard to purvey a brace of rats which he held concealed under his worn brown cloak. He was an unprepossessing and bedraggled little man with a pointed face not unlike the features of the rodents he had for sale. His head was scabby and roughly shaven. His concave chest hunched and twisted his narrow shoulders. His mean eyes glinted with self-pity and resigned alarm when Godfrey imperiously gestured that he should follow me and Bohemond into his chamber.
Godfrey sat down behind his table. Bohemond, his handsome soldier’s face bearing a confused expression, was beside him. Peter Bartholomew bowed and scraped nervously in front of these two great lords, whilst I stayed at the door to make sure nobody entered.
“I’ll do your Worship a special deal on the rats,” the Provençal stammered in his nasal twang, pulling the rodents from under his cloak, holding them up by their tails, before placing them on the table in front of the two Princes.
“There’s one for each of you.”
He glanced from one grim face to the other.
“They’re nice and plump.”
He reached forward to demonstrate by squeezing them, but jumped back in alarm as Godfrey roared at him. I chuckled quietly.
“Silence. You know the penalty for racketeering at a time of siege, you scum. I could have you strung up for attempting to profit from the starvation of your comrades. Or perhaps that would be too quick a death. Maybe I should slice open your navel and pull your miserable guts slowly out through the hole to show the rest what happens to rascals who leave their friends with empty stomachs.”
Peter Bartholomew’s face went as white as a cloud as he bobbed and bowed in front of Godfrey, rubbing his hands together and pleading.
“My Lord Duke, your Worship, your Highness, I only bring such poor food as I am able to find, to you before others, because I know the importance of your great leadership to the whole army. I have my comrades’ best interests at heart.”
Godfrey struggled to keep his face straight and stern. Bohemond’s bluff indignation came to his rescue.
“Call the guard. Have him taken away and put to a slow death to encourage the others.”
Now Peter Bartholomew was shaking with fear.
“Wait. Is it true you are one of Count Raymond’s men?” asked Godfrey.
“I am sir, I am. He trusts me. He trusts me well.”
“Well, we would not want to harm one of our friend’s trusted men, would we?” pondered Godfrey. “Perhaps …perhaps if you were to perform a small service I could show you some mercy. Indeed I am so merciful that I might even pay you well if you faithfully fulfil the task. Otherwise,” his voice now rose again into a growl of menace, “you will surely suffer a slow and most painful death.”
Godfrey explained his plot while Bohemond looked on, his bemusement gradually clearing.
“You will join one of the details cleaning the filth left by the infidels in the Cathedral. You will find a way of burying a rusty old lance head before the altar. You will then go to your master and inform him of your visions. You will say that Saints
have told you that the Holy Lance, the lance used by the Centurion Longinus to pierce Christ’s side on the Cross, is buried in that very cathedral. You will say that the lance must be found, for you have been told that whoever carries it into battle will be invincible. Is that clear?”
A cunning grin crept over Peter’s face. He bowed and backed away, promising to carry out Godfrey’s request, and turned quickly to rush from the room. Bohemond turned to Godfrey in amazement.
“How do we know he will do as you ask? What if he goes straight to Raymond with the story of our plan?”
Godfrey shrugged his shoulders.
“I’d wager that the combination of fear and greed will keep him on the straight and narrow. Even if he does go to Raymond, what harm can he do us? Nobody will believe such a fantastic story from a rascal like him.”
With satisfaction Godfrey observed, “And he has left his rats behind – for free this time.”
Two more days of hunger passed. Once, our planned deceit perpetrated in religion’s name would have shocked me to the core; now I was excited to be one of the arch-plotters of the hypocrisy. My only thought, my only desire, was to drive the infidel from Antioch, to open the way to the Cave Church and its treasure. Then I could complete my quest. Then I could claim Blanche. With no assaults on the walls to defend against, I languished in an undernourished torpor, from which I was shaken only when a messenger rushed from the Count of Toulouse calling Godfrey to a council in his palace.
We hurried through the streets and entered the chamber we had left two days before. Raymond sat at his round table, a beatific expression on his sallow face. Bishop Adhemar gazed sternly down at his hands. In the expressions of their retinues I read eagerness, expectancy. I saw through the unconcern affected by Bohemond when a nervous glance flashed between him and Godfrey. Tancred sat impatient, wondering what the other leaders knew that he did not. Raymond’s single eye scanned the room portentously.
“Bishop Adhemar and I have heard some news from a loyal Provençal in the service of my knight William of Cunhlat.”
He gestured to the guards by the door.
“Bring in the man.”
A fearful Peter Bartholomew entered the room and halted in front of the princes’ table. He took care to avoid the eyes of Godfrey and Bohemond as he bowed deeply to Count Raymond and murmured, “My Lord…”
“Repeat to these noble princes the tale you told to me and my Lord Bishop,” oozed Raymond.
Peter Bartholomew cleared his throat.
“My noble lords, I am but a poor servant of one of the knights of the most worshipful Count of Toulouse, but I have been chosen as the humble vessel for a holy message. I have been frightened and nervous about bringing this message before you. Please, I beg your indulgence.”
His voice shook and broke, allowing the room to fill with silence. Raymond indicated with a nod that he should continue.
“For some months now, I have seen strange visions. The first came to me shortly after the holy Feast of the Nativity. In all my visions I am visited by two holy men clad in shining raiment. One, the elder, has red hair sprinkled honourably with white, and a thick grey bushy beard. The other, the younger, has a countenance fair beyond all comparison with mortal men. The elder tells me he is Saint Andrew,” here Peter piously made the Sign of the Cross with a shaking hand, “and says that his companion is none other than Our Lord Jesus Christ Himself.”
A gasp spread through the room, shared by all except Adhemar, who sat awkward and austere.
“I knew Him from the wound in His side. In my vision Saint Andrew points to Our Lord’s wound. He tells me that the sacred weapon which made it lies buried before the altar of the cathedral here in Antioch. When he first visited me, before we won this city, he flew me in my nightshirt over the walls and past the Moslem guards, to show me where the Holy Lance is hidden. Then he tells me that any Christian army which carries the lance into battle will sweep all its enemies away. Since then, until my last vision just this morning, Saint Andrew has scolded me more and more for not revealing his message to you, our leaders. I was frightened and overawed. I hope I have done no wrong. But now, in this dark hour, I overcame my fear and stand here before you.”
He bowed his narrow shoulders and hung his head.
A fine performance indeed, I thought to myself, wondering how much of his display of nerves had been real. Triumphantly, Raymond looked around the room, letting this extraordinary news sink in.
“Surely this is the sign from God for which I have prayed. Let us dig up the lance, and carry it into battle to smite down our foes. I am honoured that a man of my own nation should be trusted with such a message from on high.”
And he smiled on Peter Bartholomew with a benignity at odds with his one-eyed face. To him, our shifty purveyor of deceit was a messenger from God. Adhemar though made a sign of dissent.
“I know that the Holy Lance lies in Haghia Sophia in Constantinople. It was taken there by Emperor Constantine’s mother Saint Helena. I have seen it there with my own eyes. There cannot be two Holy Lances. Of all people, I understand the power of the holy relics. As you all know, I carry with me a portion of the True Cross, also brought by gracious Saint Helena from the Holy Land to Constantine’s city. But we must beware lest a rash belief in a false relic breaks the Second Commandment and brings down the wrath of God upon our heads.”
Godfrey, fearing the failure of his carefully laid plan, growled, “It may well be that the relic held by the Emperor is false and the one revealed to this holy man,” gesturing at the rascal who two days before had tried to sell him a pair of rats at an outrageous price, “is real. Will he swear an oath that what he says is true?”
Solemnly a great Bible was brought and Peter laid his right hand upon it. He looked at Count Raymond with a masterly combination of awe and assurance. The man had an unexpected gift for theatre.
“I solemnly swear upon this most holy of books that the account of my visions as related to these noble princes is wholly true. If I have told a falsehood may my body be broken on the wheel and may my soul burn in the everlasting fires of Hell.”
Godfrey breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was Bohemond’s turn.
“Surely we have nothing to lose by searching for this relic in the cathedral where this man directs?”
Universal assent greeted this simple suggestion, and the room emptied. A procession formed behind Peter and Raymond and grew in numbers as it went, spreading palpable excitement through the city. By the time it reached the square before the cathedral, a great throng had gathered expectantly behind. Raymond gave orders for the church doors to be closed and guarded to prevent the crowd from breaking in and hampering the work. Peter Bartholomew pointed to a spot on the beaten earth floor before the altar and a dozen men set to eagerly with picks and spades. They even included some priests, among them the Count’s own chaplain-chronicler, Raymond d’Aguilers. They dug in relays. After two hours nothing had been found.
“The fool has buried it too well, or not at all,” growled Godfrey uneasily in my ear. The nobles in the basilica were starting to get restless. Raymond looked nervous, Adhemar quietly satisfied, Tancred impatient and Bohemond more confused than ever. But they had all reckoned without the theatricality which was now consuming Peter Bartholomew. As another group of diggers flagged, he stripped off his outer garments. Urging prayer, he took a spade and leaped into the trench in his undershirt. A few moments more and with a cry of triumph he pointed to a rusty lance head protruding from the earth at the side of the hole. Raymond d’Aguilers knelt down and devoutly kissed the point. A gasp went up from the watchers. Carefully the chaplain extracted the lance head from the ground and passed it reverentially to Count Raymond, who bowed his head and in turn ardently placed his dry lips on the old metal. Raymond’s nervousness hardened into confidence; Adhemar’s satisfaction melted into dismay. The Count marched through the body of the ancient round-arched basilica, signalled for the west doors to be flung open, and raised the
false relic above his head on the steps outside. His nasal voice carried loudly round the square.
“Ni! Behold the Holy Lance, which Centurion Longinus used to pierce the side of Our Holy Saviour on the Cross. Know that an army which rides to battle behind this sacred weapon cannot be defeated and will carry all before it.”
A resounding cheer rang out, so loud that it must have echoed outside the walls and struck the besiegers with fear and wonder.
“Deus le volt, Deus le volt! Hail Count Raymond of Toulouse!”
Bohemond watched the scene with disfavour and turned to Godfrey, grunting, “Perhaps your scheme works a bit too well. You have built Raymond into a heroic leader.”
Ecstatic religious fervour, the like of which I had not seen since the council at Clermont, gripped the sorry denizens of the city, soldier and civilian alike. The light-headedness of hunger fed fanaticism as siege-famished crowds knelt in the streets, giving praise to God at the top of their voices.
Godfrey and Bohemond returned to their headquarters to plan and prepare for the assault on Kerbogha’s lines. But then the oracle we had created out of the rat vendor spoke again, demanding that every inhabitant of the city give five alms – one for each of Jesus’ wounds – and that three days’ fasting and prayer take place to cleanse the army from its impurity and sin.
“What is this monster that you have unleashed?” demanded Bohemond of Godfrey. “Not only is that one-eyed merchant Raymond made our leader and the hero of the hour, but now we are forced to fill his coffers to overflowing with alms.”
“And what is the madness in making folk fast who already have nothing to eat?” replied Godfrey with gloom. Bohemond stalked off in fury.
Luck then intervened, for Raymond, an older man than the other princes and never in the best health, fell ill and was forced to take to his bed. At least that was the news that spread through the city. I wondered whether Bohemond had played a part in Raymond’s sudden indisposition. He certainly looked satisfied enough with the outcome. But probably if he had been able to strike with poison he would have made sure that his rival did not rise again from his sickbed. Anyway, it was the Norman who made the plan for battle and led the council of war. Fortunate it was too for our cause, for he was by far our finest general.