Though they remained alert and wary of attack, they saw no sign of the enemy, and were thus able to travel at speed—owing to Taticius and their imperial guides, and the fact that the other crusaders had already passed through and chased any adversaries away. Even so, by the time the latecomers arrived, Nicaea had been under siege for almost a month. Chosen by Sultan Arslan to be his primary fortress, Nicaea sat like a gigantic boulder in the pilgrims’ path. They could not advance until the city had been taken. However, situated on a lake and defended by high stone walls and stout, iron-bound gates, Nicaea easily resisted every attack by the crusaders, and appeared happy to go on doing so indefinitely.
As the latest pilgrims came within sight of the besieged city, however, a great cry went up from the enemy warriors massed atop the walls. The arriving crusaders assumed that it was the cowardly Seljuq giving in to their dismay at the sudden appearance of so great a force of excellent horsemen and infantry soldiers arriving fresh to the fight. They exulted in the revelation of fear their imposing presence was inspiring in their quaking adversary, until realizing that the cries were actually shouts of triumph raised for the return of Sultan Qilij Arslan, who was at that very moment sweeping down upon them from the north.
The sultan, they quickly discovered, had been on a raiding campaign and was away from Nicaea when the first Latins arrived. Upon seeing the crusaders encamped around the walls of his capital, Arslan determined to break through the besieging armies and liberate his people without delay. Duke Robert, assuming command of his troops, quickly marshalled the knights and formed the battleline. Pulling the footmen back behind the line to offer support, he waited while the Seljuqs charged. Seeing that the invaders were adamant, and that their own force—a light raiding party only—had lost the small benefit of surprise, the sultan decided not to pursue the attack and broke off after a few half-hearted charges.
At first sight of the enemy retreat, the pilgrims gave chase and succeeded in cutting down a few stragglers before the sultan and his warband disappeared over the hills once more. Miraculously, the first skirmish with the infidel was won at the cost of only one Christian life—a hapless footman who had been struck by a wayward arrow that glanced off a knight’s shield and struck him in the neck. The crusaders thanked God for his mercy and joined the siege.
Count Raymond, impatient with the resistance, and worried that the sultan would soon return with a greater force, had commanded siege towers to be constructed so that the crusaders could get men over the walls. They labored for three days and nights, raising timber frames and bulwarks, in a frantic effort to capture the city before Sultan Arslan reappeared.
The furious industry of the invaders alarmed the population of Nicaea. Each day they watched with growing dread as the towers neared completion. Having seen their sultan run off by these strange new Romans, and fearing the impending slaughter should they take the walls by force, the amir of Nicaea sent an envoy under cover of night to negotiate a peace settlement with the Byzantine commander. The envoy slipped out from the city by way of a water gate on the lake, returning the same way with an escort of imperial troops.
The next morning, when the crusaders rose to begin work on the siege towers, they saw the imperial banner flying above the gate. Raymond, furious over this betrayal, summoned Taticius to his tent and demanded an explanation.
“They wished to surrender,” he said simply. “As the city formerly belonged to the basileus, they sought imperial protection. Naturally, I have taken the precaution of manning the garrison and relieving the enemy of their weapons.”
“This is treachery!” Raymond charged, leaping from his chair.
“In what way?” the strategus asked.
“The surrender belongs to me,” the count told him, striking himself on the chest. “The towers are nearly finished. We were ready to overrun the city. The victory was mine.”
The wily soldier regarded the tall, thin knight. “I do not understand your anger,” he replied. “I thought the object of our exercise was to obtain the surrender of the city, not its destruction. Diplomacy is better than bloodshed.” Tacitus paused, eyeing Raymond with undisguised contempt. “Perhaps it was the bloodshed you wanted.”
“Get out!” shrieked Raymond, slamming his hand down hard on the board. “Get out!”
The strategus bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and departed, leaving Raymond fuming at the ignominious way in which the surrender had been achieved and his glory stolen from him. His anger was quickly forgotten, however, once the assembled lords set about taking control of the city, and the problems began to multiply. For the noblemen could not agree how best to proceed, who should oversee the collection of the tribute, nor even how much the payment should be. Nor did they know what to do with Nicaea itself now that they had conquered it.
Clearly, the city would have to be protected from now on, lest it fall back into the hands of Sultan Arslan; since it had been his capital, he would certainly attempt to recover such a valuable and strategic asset. Also, one of his favorite wives and some of his children were now captives of the crusaders, and the sultan would no doubt try to free them and revenge himself on those who had embarrassed and humiliated him.
Duke Godfrey argued for leaving a contingent of soldiers behind to man the garrison. “For the sake of those travelling on, the city must remain secure,” he argued. “We cannot allow the enemy to cut off our communication with Constantinople. Nor would I care to have these Saracen devils on our tails all the way to Jerusalem.”
Bishop Adhemar agreed. “God has granted us this first of many great victories as a sign of his favor, and of the high esteem in which he holds our holy enterprise. It would be disrespectful to throw away that which God has so freely given. The city must be claimed for the pope and the church.”
Bohemond and Tancred had other concerns. “The reconquest of the Holy Land is only begun,” Bohemond pointed out. “We will need every soldier in the days to come. The protection of this city would take far too many men, and I am loath to give up a single one.”
“Prince Bohemond is right,” declared Hugh of Vermandois. “It would be foolish to divide our forces now, so far away from Jerusalem.” The lords of Flanders and Normandy, along with various other noblemen, agreed, adding their voices to Hugh’s.
There the thing rested. Clearly, the city required their continued presence to ensure that it remained securely in the crusader’s possession. Just as clearly, no one wanted to remove able-bodied fighting men from the campaign when the main objective was still to be accomplished. Also, no one was willing to remain behind in any event, thereby allowing the others all the glory and plunder to be won in the battles to come. The stalemate persisted for a day and a night—until Count Stephen offered the suggestion that a messenger might be sent back to Constantinople informing the emperor that Nicaea had been recaptured and returned to the empire.
“It might be,” Stephen proposed, “that the Byzantines can spare the troops to secure the city. If they agreed to occupy it, we could continue on our way.”
The idea was instantly accepted by one and all, and messengers were hastening back to Constantinople before the ink had dried on the parchment. The Latin lords then set about installing themselves in the city. Since the siege camps were already established, the troops remained outside the walls. The lords, however, desired better accommodation for their wives and families, so proceeded to confiscate the best houses in the city for themselves.
The emperor did not wait for the couriers to arrive, however, but set out the moment his spies assured him the city was on the point of surrender. Sailing swiftly south to a bay on the nearby coast, Alexius rode the short distance inland with two divisions of Opsikion and Anatolian troops to oversee the city’s surrender. To the utter surprise of the crusaders, the emperor arrived while they were still trying to decide which of Nicaea’s palaces they should plunder first.
As the Latin lords squabbled over who should take control of Nicaea’s wealth, Tatic
ius led his regiment of Immortals to the abandoned garrison and placed it under their authority. They then secured the gate, and welcomed the emperor’s bodyguard. The soldiers took up positions along the city’s central street to greet the emperor while the crusaders stood in flat-footed amazement as Alexius rode in triumph through the gates of the city.
The emperor assembled the pilgrims to commend them on their victory. “You have done well, my friends,” he said, his voice ringing expansively. “In capturing Nicaea, you have returned a prized property to the empire, and removed Sultan Arslan’s capital. Long has the Seljuq sultan plagued Constantinople, making his incessant attacks beneath the very gates of the empire. But no more. From this day the sultan has no home but his tent, and with God’s help that, too, shall soon be taken from him.”
So there should be no confusion over his intentions, Alexius continued, adding, “We would have each nobleman here bear witness to our gratitude in accepting the return of this city to the empire. So that you may speedily continue on your way, we will reassume its administration and relieve you of its protection.”
He then granted the sultana and her servants and children safe conduct to Constantinople until word could be taken to Qilij Arslan, asking the sultan where he wished his wife to join him, The western lords were aghast at this extraordinary charity to an enemy. Lest the pilgrims harbor hard feelings over this settlement, Alexius promptly gave orders for the sultan’s treasury to be opened and the entire contents shared out in equal measure among the crusade leaders; and further, that all the grain and produce of the markets to be distributed to the troops. The emperor took nothing for himself, save Nicaea.
While the emperor concerned himself with restoring the much valued city, the crusaders resumed their journey to the Holy Land in good spirits. Following the council in Raymond’s tent, they departed Nicaea the next morning with highest hopes for a swift completion of the crusade—despite repeated warnings from Taticius and his guides that they had not seen the last of Sultan Arslan.
In the days to follow, they passed through deserted villages and abandoned towns—places that had once been flourishing market towns and important centers of local trade. The empty hills were strewn with ruined farms, and all along the road the habitations had been burned to their foundations. Wells and vineyards, fields and forests, had all been destroyed; bridges had been broken, and cisterns and dams smashed, left to bleed out their life-giving contents to the desert-parched land. The few stream beds they encountered were dust-dry, rock-filled ditches. The further they journeyed inland, the more arid the ground became.
After only five days the water supply began to dwindle, and it was decided that the army must be split into two divisions in order to lessen the burden on the foraging parties which were having to range ever greater distances to find fodder and water. One division—consisting of the combined troops of Godfrey and Baldwin, Hugh, and all the Franks, under the leadership of Count Raymond—would range north of the road; the other—comprised of the armies of Robert of Flanders, and Robert of Normandy, Tancred and Stephen, along with the rest of the Normans and English, under the leadership of Prince Bohemond—would assume a parallel course seven miles to the south of the road.
This they did, and advanced through the low Bythinian mountains, encountering nothing more fierce than a few Seljuq raiding parties, which they promptly chased away without incident. Once through the mountains, Prince Bohemond’s division found itself on a broad upland plain of low, rolling hills in sight of the Thymbres River, and a short distance from the ancient and now-ruined city of Dorylaeum.
Almost delirious with thirst, the parched pilgrims flocked in droves to the riverside. They threw themselves headlong down the banks and stumbled into the water, sinking to their knees in the cool mud. They jostled one another to put their faces into the water, the last climbing over the first, and all of them sucking down the life-giving liquid. The horses, getting the scent in their nostrils, plunged chest-deep into the river where they stood with their noses sunk in the water.
When every last pilgrim had drunk as much as he could hold, they all turned their attention to replenishing every cask and butt and skin with fresh water. Then the children were joined by their elders as they bathed and frolicked in the shallows, splashing cool water over their blistered, sun-burnt bodies, making the nearby ruins echo with glad shouts and the sound of laughter.
As the meadow was full and green—the first good pasturage they had seen since leaving Constantinople—Prince Bohemond gave the order to halt and make camp. They grazed the animals on the wide rivermead and enjoyed a comfortable night. The next morning, after another swim and soak in the river, the crusaders moved on reluctantly.
They had only just reformed the line and begun the day’s march when Sultan Arslan and the massed Seljuq warhost attacked and cut the crusader army to small, bloody pieces.
BOOK III
January 16, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland
Caitlin and I were married in the spring of 1871. A few weeks after Angus and Libby were wed, my lovely Cait and I tied the knot and began a long and mostly sunny life together. I still saw Angus at the office, of course, and we still went to the club on the rare occasion, but we were both soon too preoccupied with the demands—financial and otherwise—of our burgeoning families to resume our old bachelor ways.
Our second wedding anniversaries saw two couples very much in love, and looking hopefully towards a prosperous and happy future. Then, only three short months later, Angus was dead.
Like so many others, he succumbed to the influenza epidemic which swept all of Europe that year. I knew nothing about his illness. I vaguely recall that he did not appear at work on Friday, and I did not see him over the week’s end. By Monday morning, he was gone, having passed in the early hours of the night.
I was devastated. My best friend, gone for ever, and I never had the chance to say good-bye, to tell him how much his friendship meant to me. After the funeral, Libby and the child—they had a little girl less than a year old—moved back to Perth, where her mother and father lived; and though she and Caitlin kept up a regular correspondence, it was never to be the same.
I bring all this up now, because, as I think on it, Angus’ funeral was the turning point. I took part in the service, naturally, and as I read out the eulogy, I happened to look up from my reading to see someone standing alone at the back of the chapel. It was Pemberton. Grim and tall in a black suit, his coat over his shoulders like a cape, he was standing with his hands folded before him, his eyes downcast.
But just as I noticed him, he raised his head slowly and looked at me. Not, I mean, as one does when being addressed from a pulpit—I was delivering the eulogy, after all—but…and how can I describe this? He raised his eyes and fixed me with a most extraordinary stare. Although he was at the back of the chapel and I at the front, his gaze penetrated straight to my very soul and filled me with such sadness that I was instantly overcome and was forced to break off my prepared speech. I fear I muttered something incomprehensible in conclusion and sat down as a great crushing wave of grief washed over me.
Afterwards, when I had collected myself somewhat, I looked for Pemberton at the reception, but he failed to appear. Six months later we met again. Caitlin had taken the sprog—we now had a delightful little cherub named Annie to amuse and amaze us—to her aunt’s house for a summer visit. I could not get away from the office to go with them, so stayed home, fending for myself. I was sitting in the smoking room at the club, reading the paper, and waiting for the dinner gong, when I became aware that someone was watching me. Glancing up, I saw Pemberton sitting across from me, and looking very much the way he had looked the day I’d seen him at the funeral.
“Are you alone this evening?” he asked, politely, but without preamble.
“Mr. Pemberton,” I said, “what a pleasant surprise. I did not hear you sit down. Yes, I am dining alone this evening—wife off to the country for a fortnight. I’m sick of my own cooki
ng, so thought I might pop round to see if the Old Stag still provides a decent haunch of an evening.”
“Oh, excellent as ever, I assure you,” he replied. “In fact, I would be most gratified if you would join me for dinner. I have been wanting to talk to you for some time.”
“How very kind of you. I would be delighted, sir.”
The gong sounded at that moment, and the tall gentleman stood. “I have a table waiting. I hope you don’t mind if we go right in. We have much to talk about, I think.”
Talk we did, to be sure. We spoke briefly of poor Angus’ untimely death, as I expected we would, and he said, “I was very touched by your tribute to Alisdair at his funeral. I know his parents were very grateful for your friendship with him,” he paused, and added, “as was I.”
Conversation then passed to other things. Our discussion ranged the length and breadth of the British Empire, I think: Egypt, the Sudan, India, Hong Kong, and a few dozen other countries I can’t remember. He seemed to know about, or have interests in, all these places, and spoke not as a causal observer, but as one with an intimate familiarity.
Much of what he said that night I found incredible. Indeed, I went home thinking I had passed the evening with a madman. Harmless, perhaps, but mad as a hatter. Definitely.
In the weeks and months that followed, however, I found myself returning time and again to something he had told me—a peculiar phrase he’d used, or startling observation he’d made—and little by little it began to make sense. Curiosity took hold of me, and I found myself wondering what else he knew.
I determined to see him again. As I did not know any other way to get in touch with him, I left a note at the Old Stag, thinking that if he came to the club more regularly than I, the porter could give it to him next time he popped in. Sure enough, within a fortnight I received a reply. It came on gold-trimmed, cream-colored stationery, very expensive, and said, simply: “Delighted to see you again. Would dinner on the sixteenth suit? Best regards, Pemberton.”
The Iron Lance Page 24