The Truce
What exactly sparked the truce or when it began is unclear. In hindsight, no one wanted to talk much about it. Probably the truce started around May 1, 1098. By this time the Mahomerie tower was complete, effectively shutting down the Bridge Gate and the Turks’ easiest access into the crusader camp. Tancred had established another stronghold near the Orontes River at the southern end of the city in a monastery’s tower, keeping a close watch on the St. George Gate—a service he offered in exchange for four hundred marks of silver from the army’s other princes. Almost immediately upon settling there, he captured a supply train of Syrian Christians who were trying to make their way into the city with grain, wine, barley, olive oil, and other such goods. The blockade was by no means perfect, but from April on it was good enough to make life uncomfortable for Yaghi-Siyan. He had to begin thinking about surrender. And after more than six months of siege warfare, many of the Franks were willing to listen.
But we know little about the talks that ensued. The only contemporary historian to describe this period in detail was Robert the Monk, who said that sometime in April Antioch’s defenders had grown weary of the fight. They threw open the city gates, and the Franks and Saracens began to mingle together around the walls.
Predictably, the truce ended badly. According to Robert, a certain Walo of Chaumont-en-Vexin, constable to the king of France, happened to be wandering alone through a pleasant meadow, probably inside Antioch. He was “trusting too much in this faithless people.” Suddenly, “armed dogs attacked him while he was defenseless and with wretched cruelty tore him limb from limb.” Walo’s wife, Humberge, now his widow, burst forth with a poetic lament addressed to Christ her king. Forgetful of “womanly shame,” she threw herself to the ground, tore at her skin with her nails, ripped out handfuls of her golden hair, and decried her husband’s dishonorable and senseless death—perhaps in the process attacking the rationale behind any attempts at negotiation: “Why did Walo deserve to die without battle? Oh ye, begotten of a virgin mother, cleanse the sins of Walo, whom you saved from death in so many other battles, and whom you have now permitted to be martyred.” After this deliberate violation of the truce, “the gentiles” sealed themselves back inside their “walls and towers and caves” and the Christians resumed their siege operations, realizing that it was not a proper warrior’s death to be murdered in peacetime.1
If Robert were our only source for the story, we might be inclined to reject the entire episode. But a letter from Anselm of Ribemont, written during the crusade, confirmed the existence of a brief cessation of hostilities when the leaders of Antioch and the Franks seriously discussed a peaceful handover of the city. In retrospect, Anselm believed the Turks never intended to surrender. Their real purpose was to lay traps for the Franks, resulting in the deaths of Walo and certain other unnamed soldiers. But during that time, “they so deceived us that they received many of our men in their city and many of them came to us.”2
Although the truce failed, it did give Franks and Turks unusual opportunities to communicate with each other, helping to explain this somewhat surprising scene: “The people who were there tell how when this city was being besieged, and when the attackers and the citizens were mixing together in frequent encounters, the men on both sides would often cede ground, reason and council restraining the urge to fight. On those occasions, troops of boys would march forth, some from the city and some the sons of our men; and they would fight together in a worthy and admirable fashion.”
These play armies included orphaned children who had attached themselves to particular princes and depended on their sponsor’s charity for survival. The orphans also appointed leaders for themselves, whom they named after their patrons: One was a Bohemond, one a Hugh the Great, one a Robert of Flanders or a Robert of Normandy. “Such and so wondrous an army often attacked the city children, holding long reeds as spears, their shields woven from twigs, throwing darts and stones each according to his ability. And so these boys and the city’s children would come together in the field, as their elders watched from either side, the citizens from the walls and ours from their tents. There you would have encountered the clash of battle, bloody blows without any danger of death.” As the grown-ups saw children’s bodies, all puny and helpless, bearing wounds for their cause, they would order the youngsters from the field, ready to renew their own more deadly combat. At heart, neither side seems to have wanted détente.3
And Yaghi-Siyan likely had a particular reason for ending the truce—a piece of news so good that it inspired him to order a hit on a prominent soldier like Walo. Word had reached him that a massive relief army was now only a few days’ march from Antioch. It had originated in Mosul, along the Tigris River (in modern-day northern Iraq), but it encompassed many of the major factions in Syria. For about three weeks, this new army had camped outside of Edessa, then in the possession of Baldwin, collecting reinforcements from Damascus and elsewhere before beginning the long march to Antioch. Surely, this army would easily crush the Franks before the city walls and finally bring the crusade to an end.4
Consequences
The only way out of this dilemma was ugly. Our source for the truce, Robert the Monk, began preparing his readers for the measures that the crusaders would take in May 1098 when he first described Antioch. The city “could not be captured by strength, but only by strategy, through cunning and not through combat.” To tell this story required finesse. Antioch was the central victory in the crusade. It was also morally suspect, a moment of conquest that potentially called into question the Franks’ claim to be warriors of God. The situation was freighted with enough ambiguity that no writer who described it agreed with any other on exactly what happened, making it impossible to know when certain events occurred or why certain actors behaved as they did.5
A few days after Walo’s death, probably around May 25, 1098, Armenian spies, likely dispatched by Baldwin from Edessa, reported to the Franks that this third and greatest Turkish relief force was fast approaching Antioch. Unsurprisingly, the leaders’ initial reaction was to follow the strategy they had used in February, when under Bohemond’s leadership they had ambushed Ridwan of Aleppo near the Iron Bridge. This time Godfrey and Robert of Flanders would lead half the army against the relief force, while the others would stay behind at Antioch to try to keep what remained of Yaghi-Siyan’s garrison trapped behind city walls. Based on what the Armenian spies reported, however, this new relief force was much more formidable than the Aleppan one had been. If true, the Franks could only “put all their hope in Lord Jesus and pray in God’s name that they would end their lives there as martyrs.” To confirm these dreadful stories and, if possible, settle on a final strategy, the princes sent their own spies to gather and bring back reliable information. If the reports proved accurate, they agreed, they would need to keep the truth hidden from the majority of the warriors. Rumor of the new army’s approach was already causing some common soldiers to desert, and at least one prince was thinking of doing so as well.6
Throughout these discussions Bohemond remained strangely calm, even chipper. His face was serene, his thoughts apparently untroubled. When he finally spoke, he did so lightly, almost jokingly. “Wise men, knights, see how terribly poor and miserable we all are! The greater and the lesser among us—there’s no difference. And we don’t have any idea how to make things better. Okay—if this seems to you like a good and honorable idea, let’s elevate one of us above the others. And if, by any means or device he can acquire this city or engineer its capture, by himself or with others, let’s all agree with one voice to give him the city as a gift.”
No one liked the idea. The city, the princes responded, belonged to no one. They had all labored equally for its conquest, and they should share equally in its possession. One or two of them likely reminded Bohemond of the oaths they had sworn to Alexius—indeed, Bohemond had insisted that they do so at the time. The city ultimately should be returned to the emperor. Or at least that’s how t
hey felt while the size of the approaching army was unknown. As for Bohemond, he left the room, his smile now a little forced, though he perhaps tossed off a bon mot: “Woe to a city serving so many lords!”7
About three days later, right at the end of May, word came back from the scouts that the relief army from Mosul was indeed nearby and that it was as large, if not larger, than initial reports had suggested. By one estimate it numbered over 400,000 men. They would be at Antioch in less than a week. The desperate strategy Bohemond had used against Aleppo in February would not work a second time.
Some considered the possibility of retreat—not giving up the pilgrimage altogether, but leaving Antioch behind and continuing on to Jerusalem. Practical voices, however, shut down that avenue of escape. “If we abandon this city, it will not abandon us. It will follow us as a companion, as an adversary blocking our path, attacking from behind and from the front.” Their only hope was that Bohemond had had a specific idea behind his earlier proposal—that they could enter the city before the new army arrived and use Antioch’s impregnable defenses to their own advantage. Secure inside Antioch, they could worry about how to defeat the relief force later. They therefore agreed that if Bohemond might acquire Antioch in any way, they would all with one heart offer him complete authority over it. But there was a caveat: Should Alexius finally come to their rescue and fulfill the promises he had made at Constantinople, they would return the city to him according to those earlier agreements. Bohemond agreed to this provision, likely thinking that it would never be an issue. He knew the emperor’s mind better than anyone else and knew that there was almost no chance Alexius would show up with his army to fight. And so, at last, having sat by patiently as a very real threat of complete annihilation had hung over the crusade, Bohemond revealed his plan. “Lords, my dearest brothers,” he began, “I have a secret.”8
For several weeks he had been cultivating an inside man in Antioch—a Turk or an Armenian (no one was quite sure) named Pirrus, or Firuz. Pirrus controlled three of the towers on the southern side of the city, near the St. George Gate (where Tancred had been keeping a close watch), and he was prepared to allow the Franks entry. Why he was willing to do so is unclear. Modern historians speculate that Pirrus was an Armenian who had converted to Islam after the Turks had captured the city thirteen years earlier and whose loyalty was suspect. According to twelfth-century rumor, Pirrus’s motives were more personal. Bohemond had captured his son during an earlier battle and would free the boy only in return for the entire city of Antioch. Another story held that Pirrus had been an extremely wealthy and prominent citizen before the Turks conquered Antioch, but that as a result of predatory and punitive taxation, he had lost much of his status and was anxious to avenge himself upon Yaghi-Siyan. The simplest, and perhaps most likely, story is that Bohemond bribed him: “He promised to give him Christianity and see that he became rich and much honored.”9
An even simpler explanation: Pirrus and Bohemond just really liked each other. Indeed, in one version of this story Pirrus seems to have fallen in love with the charismatic giant. During the siege the two men had begun to exchange notes filled with the sort of emotion one would expect to find between lovers. To Bohemond, Pirrus became “my dearest.” He pleaded with him for absolute trust, engaging in affectionate, ostentatious wordplay. “May you never disbelieve me, friend to friend, only one to one and only.” Pirrus in turn promised to give Bohemond the city, saying, “I place my soul in the hands of my one and my only one, and I turn over this city, in faith, to my friend.”10
For warriors fighting in God’s name and with God’s blessing, however, bribery, blackmail, and homoerotic romance were not satisfying explanations of why Antioch fell. A better explanation would involve God, making Pirrus into a sort of “saintly traitor.” Robert the Monk provided it: Bohemond and Pirrus, he said, met during the truce (a likely observation). If it had not been for the truce, if Bohemond had not had the opportunity to exercise his outsized charms on a few of Antioch’s disaffected defenders, then the Franks might have stayed stuck outside the city until the relief army arrived. But, Robert indicated, nothing would have come of these meetings had it not been for the wondrous judgments of God. For during one of their first encounters, Pirrus asked Bohemond where the Franks had stationed “the countless luminous soldiers” who had appeared to aid them in almost every military engagement. “By my guardian Mathomos, I swear that if they were all here present, the whole field would not be able to hold them. They all have wondrously fast white horses and vestments and shields and banners of the same color.” Every time Pirrus saw them, he trembled as if caught in a whirlwind. Bohemond, inspired by God, explained that this army was a heavenly host composed of martyrs led by Saints George, Demetrius, and Maurice—the Eastern military saints who had first appeared in the campaign a year earlier at Dorylaeum. They were engaged in battles throughout the world against unbelievers. Their camps were not of this earth. Instead, they rested upon thrones in heaven.
Pirrus’s next question was a perceptive one: Why then, if the saintly warriors were in heaven, did they need things like horses, shields, and banners? Bohemond admitted that he didn’t know, and he called on his priest, a man familiar with the necessary technical jargon and thus better equipped to explain how God spoke heavenly truths through earthly signs. “They only appear to be armed,” the priest explained, “so as to demonstrate that they are going to help those engaged in warfare.” God transformed material appearances without actually affecting spiritual essences. Once the truce had broken down, and once Pirrus had had a chance to reflect further upon the priest’s words, he agreed to give Bohemond the city.11
Now, perhaps with some distaste, the leaders assented to this treachery—an act possibly inspired by God but certainly made feasible through promises of money and power. Bohemond sent Pirrus the news: “Behold! The time is now! We can bring about whatever good deed we wish. Help me now, Pirrus, my friend!” The message pleased Pirrus, and the next day he sent his son to act as hostage and as a pledge of his integrity (assuming Bohemond had not already captured him in an earlier battle). After one or two more exchanges, they were ready to put their plan into effect. As Bohemond quietly informed a select few leaders—Godfrey, Robert of Flanders, Raymond of Saint-Gilles, and Bishop Adhémar—on June 2, 1098, “Grace of God willing, tonight Antioch will be handed over to us.”
The tension, however, had proved all too much for the man so recently elected head of the entire crusade. Stephen of Blois was overcome with illness, or at least he claimed he was. He withdrew from the siege and traveled to the fortress of Alexandretta, about thirty miles northwest of Antioch, close to the shore and close to escape. He promised to return as soon as he could, but it was the last crusaders ever saw of him.12
That night Bohemond ordered a knight, nicknamed “Evil Crown,” to summon a group of seven hundred warriors to accompany him on a march to nowhere. It was supposed to look like a foraging expedition or else to make Antioch’s defenders believe that the Franks had left to confront the army from Mosul before it could reach the city, as they had originally proposed doing. Most of the Franks in this band didn’t even know where they were going. Godfrey had told his men that they would be searching for a small group of Saracens camped somewhere in the mountains. The expedition’s real purpose was simple misdirection: to convince Antioch that on this one night, out of all others, it had nothing to fear from the Franks. Because of the continuing problem of spies in camp, as few people as possible knew what the leaders were up to. So secret were the plans that Bohemond’s own cousin Tancred later claimed to have known nothing of them.13
When the armies on the march returned to Antioch just before dawn, they approached one of Pirrus’s towers, near the southeastern corner of the city. Bohemond sent forward an interpreter, fluent in Greek, to deliver some prearranged signal to Pirrus, who in turn passed down last-second instructions about when to approach the wall. In the meantime the princes and captains at the head of t
he expedition at last revealed to their men the real point of what they were doing, and they began choosing from the boldest among them the ones who should enter Antioch first. It must have been a terrifying prospect, climbing into the city whose defenses and defenders had so long mocked them and defied their every advance.
Godfrey tried to deliver encouraging words, but his tone, as his followers remembered it, was fairly gloomy. “Remember,” he said, “in whose name you left your country and family, and how your renounced your earthly life, fearing to endure no danger of death on behalf of Christ.” After exhorting them to be faithful knights of Christ, he concluded somberly, “We all must die in some way.”
Silently they made their way to the city and hovered in the darkness. As their interpreter had learned from Pirrus, the night watch had yet to pass by. As soon as they saw the flame of a single torch flickering across the rampart, they approached the wall. A knotted rope fell down from the darkness, and some of Bohemond’s men tied a ladder to it. Pirrus raised the ladder up and fixed it to the wall as Bohemond wished his men good luck. The giant stepped back into the shadows, waiting to see what would come of his plan.14
Armies of Heaven Page 22