Prince of Legend c-3

by Jack Ludlow

  Aware that all eyes were upon him Kerbogha showed no sign of anxiety. Before him was a map that told him what position the Crusaders had taken up, whose banner flew in what was obviously the command position, and runners brought him information that suggested they were out in total, that they were being held, yet were maintaining themselves an unbroken line; no threatening advance but no hint of a retreat.

  Standing orders to those who masked the St George’s Gate already had them hurrying south to the lower bridge that crossed the Orontes and they would come upon the rear of the Latins, while boats had been provided for the men camped outside the St Paul’s Gate and along the inland riverbank so they could reinforce the men who, originally driven back, had been camped opposite the Bridge Gate. The latter, with more men coming to their aid, would not falter, so he had time to think on the best way to react, for if an immediate frontal advance was the most obvious, it was not the sole option.

  ‘I sense,’ he said finally, without lifting his head, ‘that you are eager to rush into battle.’

  That got a low murmur of agreement.

  ‘I have years on all of you, and experience too. We are in no peril, my good fellows.’ The call to prayer began to echo through the camp, and that made Kerbogha smile, for the imams would show no concern for anything other than the souls of their flock. ‘Let us say our prayers and then we may have guidance as to how to react.’

  In truth the Atabeg of Mosul had concerns, even if they were slight, given the relative numbers: his force was a heterogeneous one, made up of so many tribes and different religious affiliations, albeit they were all Muslims. He had caution about exposing them too quickly to battle. On the way to Antioch he had besieged Edessa and what he had seen there did not fill him with confidence as to how they would perform, added to which this was a host that had never engaged in open combat, an arena so much more open to malign chance than a siege. It was why he had used his Turks as the main weapon — they were fierce warriors by nature and could be relied on to fight well.

  Would the Crusaders, upon sight of the whole host moving up, merely fade back behind their walls? Would they hold out against the forces already engaged and at this very moment being substantially reinforced? It was paramount to Kerbogha that this battle, even if it was forced upon him, should be the last fight over Antioch and wholly successful, added to which if there was any reputation to be gained from its fall, then it should be his and his alone, hence his standing instruction to the citadel and Shams ad-Dulauh, repeated by messenger, to stay within their walls.

  ‘My intention,’ he said, once prayers were over, ‘is to keep the Latins outside the walls and fighting. Our men are holding and will find it possible to continue to do so as their losses are replaced from the other side of the Orontes. We will march, but let some sand run through the glass before we do, for on sight of us our enemies will merely fade away and we will once more face their walls. I want them too weary to retreat with any speed, and even if they try I have issued orders so that they will find they have to fight just to get back to the gate.’

  ‘Victory will come anyway, My Lord Kerbogha,’ cried one of his senior commanders, a Persian and a reluctant ally. ‘They are starving and our men may die to no purpose.’

  The face closed up, what had been a narrow forehead near to disappearing: Kerbogha was not a man who liked his actions or decisions to be questioned. ‘You may die for want of respect.’

  That was threat enough to silence the speaker and more than enough to make cautious the others present. Kerbogha’s black eyes swept the room and all dropped their heads enough to avoid contact with his glare. There was no need for him to speak: they would obey his commands whenever he chose to issue them.

  ‘Keep the host at readiness and I will give the order to march when I think the time is right.’

  Standing on his slight mound, with the baking sun making both his helmet and his mail hard to bear, Bohemund was lost in confusion and racking his brain to think if there was some way Kerbogha could outmanoeuvre him. The Atabeg had to stay this side of the Orontes; he could not get at the Crusaders by any other means and if he tried a long flank march to the west it would take him time and could not be kept from being observed. In that event Bohemund would swing his line to face it, an option open to him in an interior position. As long as he held the Bridge Gate he held the ability to withdraw at will, not that he would order that unless the battle was well and truly lost.

  Several times he had been obliged to send forward Tancred at the head of a strong party of Apulians to straighten a deep kink in the Christian line, and on one occasion he had withdrawn some of Vermandois’ men and replaced them to give them some respite, they having been fighting the longest. It was a mark of their ability and morale that they took this amiss and were keen to resume their place as soon as a lull in the fighting made this possible.

  And pauses there were; for all their martial prowess, and the Turks could hold their head for valour with any Christian, no man could keep fighting at full tilt for several hours under a hot sun. Respite came when an enemy fell back to regroup, a slight suspension but enough to take on a drink of water, to mop the streaming sweat from their brows, to look their opponents in the eye before one or the other rushed forward to re-engage.

  Yet such breathers happened in parts of the line not the whole, so the air was never free of the clash of weapons and the cries of men, either to give force to their efforts or to react to a painful blow, added to that endless loud pleas to saints or the paladins of the Muslim religion for succour and strength.

  A careful eye was kept on the various banners, for it was important that they held steady. If the army of which Bohemund had been given temporary command was fighting for its life and its faith, it was those fellow magnates of his who could inspire their efforts by both their personal example and the ability they had to encourage by word and deed.

  ‘Lord Bohemund, the Turks from the St George’s Gate have crossed the river over the southern bridge and are coming up on our rear.’

  That got a nod; one of the lesser gates and the furthest south, the numbers there had not been great, some five hundred men who could not defeat the Crusaders but could, by their actions and if their timing was right, cause serious problems, for they were as a body mounted on swift ponies. He looked over to the group of mounted French knights, part of those who had first exited the Bridge Gate under Vermandois, standing by their horses, holding their heads tight so they could not graze or drink too much: a horse with a full belly was of no use in a fight.

  ‘Who has Count Hugh left in command over there?’

  ‘Reinhard of Toul,’ Tancred replied, ‘in the service of France. Shall I call him to you?’

  ‘No,’ Bohemund replied with a smile, ‘it is only fitting I go to him. Keep your eye on our front, Tancred and act to provide support as you see fit.’

  Reinhard pulled himself to his full height when Bohemund approached, for here was a fighter of legend. The Count of Taranto was a man with whom he had enjoyed little contact and he knew, because he had heard it spoken, of his liege lord’s less than sterling view of the Apulian, but since he did not much admire Count Hugh he discounted his opinion. Looking up and blinking at the sky — there was no choice with such a giant — he nodded as his instructions were relayed, based on the notion that Kerbogha would have given the commander at the southernmost gate certain instructions in the event of a full-blooded sortie from within the walls.

  ‘They will not attack us unless we are so pressed they have little fear of taking on a superior force. But if matters become critical they will try to cut off what they see as our line of retreat.’

  ‘Little do they know it is not one we will choose to take.’

  Bohemund smiled at Reinhard then; here was a knight with no illusions about their fate should they fail and one who intended to die in battle, not as a slave.

  ‘They must be stopped before they can get close enough to affect matters, and if
we lose every horse and every man in achieving that then that is a price that must be paid. We cannot have mounted men attacking our rear, even in small numbers, while we are fully engaged and in a struggle for survival to the front, for they will wreak havoc.’

  To a knight of much experience that required no further explanation: it was not numbers that mattered but the effect such a sight would have on those struggling to hold the line against Kerbogha’s host. Men would be bound to turn away from their primary duty to fend off an attack by a man on horseback, especially archers, and that would give a chance for the Turks to break through any gap created in the front line.

  ‘These mounts are not fit for the kind of fight I must engage in, My Lord. One charge and they will be spent. And then there are the numbers — we are too few.’

  ‘I will detach some milities to go with you, Reinhard; let the foot soldiers take the bulk of the action and reserve your cavalry till the last. And know this, as much as I do myself, you hold the fate of all of our confreres in your hands. If you fail to stop those coming up from the south and they interfere when we face the whole might of Kerbogha, we cannot hold.’

  ‘It would not wound my pride if you were to give the command to another.’

  Bohemund knew that was not fear: Reinhard was telling him he would happily serve under a knight more senior and of greater experience than himself. The widening of the smile was as reassuring as the words.

  ‘We are all captains today, Reinhard, or even generals. You will do as well as anyone, of that I am sure.’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord.’

  That got him a slap on the shoulder. ‘Make the King of France proud so that, even if he is not present, he will hear of your valour and praise you.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Reinhard moved with little haste, more interested in keeping his formation in order and free from fatigue than covering ground. The men he was about to face were not going to engage in an immediate assault, their aim was to get into a good position for a later attack; indeed, when they were sighted, even if they were in superior numbers, they ceased to come on. This being far enough off from the southern walls of Antioch served the purpose of the Crusader army well, albeit the Turks were in sight of the citadel and any instruction Kerbogha chose to relay from its towers.

  The Crusader had two options: to go on the defensive himself or to attack. Bohemund, even if it was more by chance than knowledge, had chosen well, for in Reinhard of Toul he had appointed a leader able to take all of the pertaining factors into account, able to reason that his men, over a long period without supply and given their diminished state at the beginning of the battle, not to mention their inferior numbers, were not in a fit condition for a long drawn-out action; as time went by their inherent weaknesses against a well-fed enemy would tell.

  Another reason to act quickly was that it would be unexpected: normal tactics dictated that Reinhard should stay on the defensive; as long as he stopped the Turks from getting to the battle area his job was done and in the ordinary course of events they would seek to overcome him to get into the fight at a time of their own choosing. The state of his men, and more importantly his mounts, would be no mystery to a Turkish commander who oversaw the interdiction of the St George’s Gate, by far the most porous of the five entrances and exits from the city.

  Smugglers plied their trade at great risk and ameliorated that not only by bribery but also by being conduits of information to both sides; they would tell the Crusaders the numbers and spirit of the besieging Turks once inside and do the reverse on their egress, which had to include the lack of such things as food and fit horses. If there was a degree of supposition in Reinhard’s thinking that was what any commander was obliged to rely on; certainty was never available in battle.

  Another positive trait was him seeing the need to explain to those who would carry out his orders why they were being asked to act in that way; better men risking their lives should know the reason than hesitate in wonder once engaged. In battle you seek to see into the mind of your opposite number, to anticipate his thinking, and by doing so lead him to conclusions which he will see as rational when they are in fact false.

  Tactical outline over, Reinhard lined up his milities in several ranks, so that they formed a rough square, and set them to advance with his cavalry bringing up the rear, but so slowly and wearily that the gap between the two bodies grew perceptibly wider.

  A good commander, once he has made and explained his dispositions, prays that they are correct and only seeks to alter them, not by the gnawing worry that they might be wrong, but only when aware of the certainty that they are flawed. This led to an extended period of anxious watchfulness in the hope that the enemy, once they did move, would do so as had been hoped. Reinhard breathed easier when he saw them begin to deploy for an obvious attack, for if they had not he would have been obliged, lacking the force to press home upon them, to retreat to his starting position.

  Mounted archers — one of, if not the main Turkish assault weapon — were deadly in open country and this was where Reinhard and his men found themselves, for they had declined to use the one flank partially protected by the River Orontes. The Turks held back on an immediate attack, instead riding around in a flurry of circles as if threatening rather than with intent, this because the opening gap between the Crusaders’ horse and foot looked to be playing into their hands, the divergence beginning to increase enough to allow them to assault the milities with impunity from all sides.

  The blowing of a distant horn, coming from a small group under a green banner, obviously the commander, set the mounted archers into a fast canter, their mounts controlled by knees alone, both hands occupied with their bows, in a display of horsemanship which would have been admirable if it had not also been deadly.

  Against such an attack the milities had only their shields and their helmets and these were rendered near to useless by the proximity of their assailants as they loosed off their deadly darts. Men were dropping in increasing numbers and the temptation to take aim at their less well-protected backs brought the bulk of the mounted archers into the ground between the milities and Reinhard.

  In their enthusiasm for killing and maiming, the Turks were firing off their arrows with no discrimination, seeking to do with quantity what would have been better served by careful aim, and in acting so they presented Reinhard with the opportunity for which he had prayed and calculated. As soon as he saw the first fellow turn back towards his own side for want of anything in his quill, he called upon his men to advance, kicking into a fast canter his supposedly weary horses.

  His primary aim was to induce confusion in his enemy, a lack of certainty about how to act, and Reinhard achieved that for there was no immediate response from his opposite number, now, in any case, partially hidden by a cloud of dust kicked up by his own men. Lacking clear orders they were unsure as to how they should react to this sudden alteration to the state of the battle, these Latin horsemen, who had looked to be spent before they started, coming on at pace with lowered and deadly lances; this had not been anticipated.

  The milities suddenly broke ranks and spread out to get between the bulk of the mounted archers and safety, albeit they left behind a ground covered in writhing bodies. At a rush the lead elements got to the riverbank and took up a kneeling position with extended pikes to bar passage, which obliged their enemies, if they wanted to get away, to ride across their front. At the back of that first line the rest had turned to face south so as to hold at bay any Turks seeking to assist their comrades.

  ‘Choose your target!’

  Reinhard’s yelled command immediately broke up the advancing line as each lance point was aimed at an individual Turk, now widely dispersed, those with arrows firing them off uselessly at men in full chain mail, others with empty quills drawing swords that only had one blow with which to stop the gleaming metal point heading for their vital trunk. Several arrows hit the horses, which slowed their progress if it did not entirely stop the
m, but within a blink the Turks began to go down to Crusader lance points, that soon followed by cleaving broadswords.

  Lightly armed, the Muslims were no match for European knights in this kind of combat and when the milities, knives in hand, joined the fray to drag them to the ground and either pierce their breasts or cut their throats, the outcome of this part of the action was decided. With loud shouting the knights began to clear a path through their own milities to get to the rest of the Turks, now milling about in confusion between the fight and their leader.

  The sight of heavily armed knights emerging from the dust-filled throng, even if they were struggling to keep their mounts in motion, sent the enemy riding off in panic and that communicated itself to their now visible commander, who sounded the horn as he abandoned both the field and those of his men who could not get clear. It was not necessary for Reinhard to call a halt to his men; sheer equine fatigue did that for him. Now, still outnumbered, he had to prepare for a counter-attack.

  It did not come: the ground to the south was filled with riders carrying flaming torches and the tinder-dry, still-maturing fields of wheat began to smoke, soon turning into an inferno as the Turkish commander set light to the crops, obviously to cover his retreat; there would be no more fighting on this field and that occasioned a ragged cheer as everyone came to realise they had scored an outright victory.

  For all the joy of success a look at the cost was sobering. His foot soldiers had suffered terribly and the fact that such a thing had been necessary did not make it easy to bear. He ordered that once the enemy dead had been stripped — there were none left wounded — their ponies should be gathered up and along with his own horses be used to carry the Crusader dead back to Antioch.