by Jack Ludlow
Raymond refused to even talk to Bohemund, indeed he did not even exit from his pavilion when his banners appeared and his horns were blown, so it fell to a reluctant Robert of Flanders to explain the situation. The first assaults, made with hastily constructed ladders, had failed, added to which, with the numbers available, it had been impossible to close off Ma’arrat an-Numan from the surrounding hinterland, which obviated the possibility of starving them out.
Bohemund made the point that with his Apulians engaged the situation was now altered, though there were other concerns that he was quick to broach. ‘How well supplied are you, Robert?’
The lack of eye contact that question produced was answer in itself; it took no great genius to see that if the country the Apulians had marched through to get here was practically bare of supply, and the pilgrims who had flocked to follow Raymond and his Holy Lance were scrabbling for food, then the likelihood existed of such a situation being spread in all directions to the whole plateau, and that would not only be due to the extra numbers the area now needed to support.
The siege would not have come as a surprise to the inhabitants of Ma’arrat an-Numan. With Albara in Crusader hands their city stood to be next; they would have been active in filling their storerooms, and sense dictated they would have also destroyed much of that which they could not transport into the city so as to deny sustenance to their approaching enemy.
It took little time for a besieging army, even just trailing with it the normal level of camp followers, to take what was shortage of provender to a situation where it became dearth. The addition of thousands of pilgrims made that many times worse, a situation that had arisen outside Antioch the previous year where the Crusade, both fighters and non-combatants, had come close to actual starvation.
‘I have no appetite for a repeat of that,’ Bohemund said, using the pun to lighten his point, given he was reminding a man who had shared that foul period with him of what they had suffered, ‘which is what we might face if we spend the whole winter engaged in this siege.’
‘Then,’ Robert replied, making no attempt to hide his irritation, ‘a man would be entitled to wonder at your being here.’
‘He would if he did not already know.’
Such a sharp comment made the Count of Flanders uncomfortable, which Bohemund took as a positive sign: if he had hitched his star to Raymond of Toulouse it was not without his being able to discern his motives, which were no more chivalrous than those of the Count of Taranto. Yet he was still inclined to be distant, there being, for instance, no indication of any plan that Raymond might have or where the Apulians could position themselves to be the most effective as an addition to the siege, leaving Bohemund to make his own dispositions based on what he could observe.
If being entirely cut off disheartened the inhabitants of Ma’arrat an-Numan it was not immediately obvious; more for the sake of prestige than any real hope of success Bohemund, himself employing hastily constructed ladders, opened an assault against the walls opposite where he had pitched his pavilion, only to be swiftly repulsed; his men were good fighters and they were brave, but they were not what they needed to be, Gods of antiquity with wings to fly.
The whole city, its walls broken into sections with towers, was surrounded by a deep ditch, a dry moat, which made getting any climbing equipment to the walls so slow as to render the attempt doubly hazardous, extending the time that the attackers were exposed to all the usual tools of defence: archery in the approach and retreat, boiling oil and cast-down rocks when actually close enough to the masonry to raise their ladders. Not one of them made it more than a halfway ascent, so it made sense to quickly call the attack off, it being a probe that looked likely to be too expensive.
Having made that demonstration and shown he was here for a purpose, Bohemund expected that Raymond would be obliged to soften his stand and call him to a conference to coordinate any future tactics; he waited in vain and his own pride would not allow that he abase himself by making an open approach.
Even Robert of Flanders seemed inclined to do no more than exchange the minimum of words needed to retain some element of contact and he certainly made no attempt to pass on what the Count of Toulouse might be thinking and contemplating, not that there was any activity to speak of; it was as if by ignoring them he could wish the Apulians away.
‘Perhaps when our bellies are swollen with hunger it will dent his arrogance,’ Bohemund ranted, loud enough to be overheard by many, as he rode through the Provencal lines, paying no heed to the glares he received, this to give Raymond a chance to relent. ‘Or maybe he seeks the shame of having us all retire with our honour besmirched.’
‘I doubt he can hear you, Uncle, his pavilion is too far off.’
‘He will hear me by proxy, Tancred, for my words will be reported to his ears before we are out of sight of that damned Occitan banner.’
‘And they will serve to moderate his behaviour?’
The irony in that question was not hidden; Tancred was sure that his uncle was allowing the behaviour of Raymond to cloud his judgement about what was militarily necessary, which was a rare thing and stood to demonstrate how the dispute over Antioch had got under the normally impenetrable de Hauteville skin. The reply, when it came, was a deep and unpleasant growl.
‘I await what you are sure to tell me, that you have a better notion of how to shake the dolt into action.’
‘If I had, would I be permitted to act upon it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply this, that your own pride is so injured that you may see me talking to Raymond as a betrayal.’
Tancred waited for a reply, but in vain; all he got was a broody silence, which encouraged him to think he had penetrated Bohemund’s anger enough to engage his mind to think in those areas that were of more import: to augment that he reprised the need for haste, due to potential hunger as well as the fanaticism of citizen defenders.
‘Their hope is that hunger will drive us away.’ Still there was no response. ‘And perhaps that is what Raymond wishes also, that we Apulians will be obliged to retire to Antioch for the sake of our bellies, for we have with us only that which we scourged on the way.’
‘As long as Toulouse is here, so are we.’
‘Which is as I expected, but Raymond will not act without he is pushed to do so and you lack the means to make him.’
The tone softened; Bohemund’s brain was working. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘That I try to shift him?’
‘How?’
‘By creating the fear you might beat him to breaching the walls by your superior knowledge of siege warfare. After all, you got into Antioch before he did and for that he has never forgiven you. If he has troubled dreams they will be made up of such an anxiety.’
For the first time in days Bohemund was able to laugh. ‘By the saints, Tancred, you have your grandfather’s cunning.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Subtlety was required to deal with Raymond of Toulouse, but Tancred was also aware of the lack of time which, given it was not a secret, became a weapon not an impediment. If Ma’arrat an-Numan could not compare with other places they had besieged, the defences had enough about them, as well as bodies to man them, to provide an obstacle that could keep the combined forces at bay for many weeks, too long for any sense of comfort.
Bohemund’s conclusion, after another day of Provencal inactivity, was stark and at total odds with his previous angry contention after they had ridden through the Provencal camp. It was brought on by an examination of his own level of supply and stood as testimony to the tactical flexibility that made him a first-rate commander of men.
‘As soon as I deem it impossible to take this place in the time we have I will depart and ahead of Raymond and his pilgrims. What is left in the countryside between here and Antioch is too sparse to feed us all.’
‘What if it then falls to him alone?’
‘It won’t!’
Bohemund insisted
this was the case with such doggedness that his nephew did not bother to seek an explanation, given a possible answer as to how Ma’arrat could be taken had occurred to him.
‘So, nephew, what is your plan?’
‘I have no notion, as yet,’ Tancred lied, ‘but I am sure something will occur.’
That got him a hard look; devious himself Bohemund was ever on guard for the same trait in others and perhaps Tancred had been too breezy in his response. To the young man on the receiving end, being less than open was justified both by his de Hauteville blood, as well as the number of times his uncle had been less than frank with him. Then, added to that, was the notion his idea might not work.
To approach Raymond directly would be useless and that also applied to making any move to contact those Apulian knights who had been bribed by the Count of Toulouse to desert his uncle’s banner. Instead, Tancred approached a Provencal knight called Bardel, with whom he had formed a bond. For all the various contingents usually did battle in contained units there had been many times where they had combined to forage together, and in that friendships had been shaped that transcended territorial boundaries and the enmities of the higher nobles.
Knowing Bardel, and sure he would be welcome, enabled Tancred to enter the lines of Raymond’s lances where, round a blazing fire, lay within them the seeds of his idea. These must, he was certain, feed back to their liege lord, for men like Bardel would have an appreciation of the parlous nature of the enterprise. They could calculate as well as anyone the dwindling level of supplies, just as they would see the low quantity of the same being fetched in by foraging parties that were forced to travel in a wider and wider arc, as well as in greater numbers, to secure anything at all. Given the time of year, that included growing supplies of wood to provide warmth in the increasingly cold nights, which sapped the will, as well as the dispiriting days when the skies clouded over and the rains that made fertile this high plateau fell to drench men with only canvas to provide shelter. Bardel was quick to allude to the way such conditions led to increasing sickness.
‘And that weakens us more than the need to forage when it comes to the fighting.’
If it was both obvious and a commonplace it did not diminish its significance, every siege faced the same dilemma: the more men a leader detached to forage, which tended to increase in direct proportion to the length of the endeavour, the less he could commit to battle. The longer a siege lasted in poor weather — and it was getting worse here as winter came upon them — the more men were exposed to agues and fevers, and there was always the risk of the more deadly plagues that could sweep through and decimate an army in a matter of days.
A log cast onto the fire around which they were sat sent up a shower of sparks into the cold, damp air and one of Bardel’s cohort, shivering for effect, aired a complaint that got many a nod.
‘May the Good Lord forgive me for saying so, but I would welcome a bit of that baking heat we had in summer.’
‘I heard you curse that, my friend,’ Bardel laughed, ‘as heartily as you now curse the cold.’
‘My prayers fell on stony ground then, Bardel, but we need the sun to shine on us now, when we can bear it.’
‘They say it snows deep here sometimes,’ interjected another to increase feelings of gloom, present anyway under a grey sky.
The moaning went the rounds, but that was not anything to remark upon: soldiers, when not fighting, always grumbled, cursing heat if it was hot as heartily as they damned the misery of being cold and the food they were given whatever the weather.
Only talk of plunder could render them cheerful, the dream that one day they would uncover a treasure so great and on their own that they could look forward to a life of ease and comfort. This tended to be in a manor house of their own choosing, with a plump, willing and fecund wife, fertile land and villeins to plough it, with a church and a priest endowed by them within the confines of their demesne, where Masses would be said daily for his soul to secure entry to heaven.
As the talk moved on it was natural to speculate on what of value might lie within Ma’arrat al-Numan, a city full of rich merchants at the crossroads of two major trade routes, and this in turn led, as it was bound to do, on to the prospects of ever getting inside. This was commonly held to be sparse, given they had tried and been so resoundingly repulsed by folk who were not proper soldiers, but mere citizens, which disheartened them even more.
‘Perhaps the mighty Bohemund, now that he has joined us, has a way to get us over yonder walls?’
The tone of that comment, made from beyond the flames, was not friendly; indeed, it was downright acerbic. If Bardel and Tancred, in the time they had spent in each other’s company, had formed a bond of companionship, that did not apply to everyone present. Several members of Bardel’s cohort had looked distinctly piqued when he invited Tancred, wandering around inside their encampment, to warm his hams and drink some hot wine.
‘Perhaps,’ opined another, ‘he can tell us why we are outside Ma’arrat at all?’
The remark set up a murmur of agreement, showing that the sentiment was shared, while further interjections made it clear where the complaint lay. These men had come on Crusade to free Jerusalem from Islam, albeit they expected to prosper both on the way and once they arrived. Ma’arrat an-Numan was not in the direction of that goal, so why were they here if it was not for lordly pride? It was a grievance that had surfaced at Antioch when progress south was delayed by the infighting of Bohemund and Raymond, yet it seemed to be of a deeper hue on this high windswept plateau.
Listening carefully and taking no part, lest his view be seen as tarnished by his bloodline, Tancred heard many a curse directed at his uncle — they were eager to damn the Count of Taranto for his ambition and inflexibility — but more telling was the way Raymond’s own lances were prepared to castigate him too, and wonder if his head had been turned by the discovery of the Holy Lance.
Men like Bardel did not lack for piety and were strong in their Christian faith: if they saw the spiritual value of the relic and were prepared to openly ascribe the victory outside the walls of Antioch to its influence, they failed to see why it was not now leading them to their stated destination.
The way their liege lord tended to posture with the holy relic, always carrying it with him and eager to show it to the pilgrims, who would fall to their knees at the sight of such a marvel, patently fed his pride, of which the Count of Toulouse had never been in short supply. For all he kept his silence it was a grievance that Tancred shared and for the same reasons: he too was frustrated at the way the dispute had tempered the true purpose of the Crusade, which had his loyalty to his uncle at loggerheads with his faith.
He only spoke again when that complaint had run its course. ‘My uncle had a notion that with so few real soldiers the way to overcome the walls is with a siege tower.’
That was received with nods, for it made some sense, such a weapon being difficult to defend against even for trained fighters, until a sour voice pointed out, again to general approval, that they were naught but lances and lacked the skills to construct one.
‘He is minded to send back to Antioch for the English carpenters who are still there to have them build it.’
‘Waiting, like us, to fulfil their vow,’ came the sharp response from the other side of the flames. ‘They want to employ their skill outside Jerusalem, not here.’
‘Here would be better as of now,’ Bardel countered. ‘They might aid us in getting over yonder walls.’
‘The English devils work for pay, not faith,’ called another.
‘Worse than Normans, they are!’
‘The only thing worse than a Norman,’ Bardel shouted angrily, ‘is a man who ignores the law of hospitality.’
‘How would you have them behave, friend?’ Tancred enquired, for the barb about Normans was aimed at him, even if he was the son of a Lombard. ‘Such men must eat, and since no lord will feed them and they cannot fight, how are they to live?’
‘Let them spend your uncle’s gold, perhaps when they have left his coffers bare it will dent his pride.’
‘And what if they do, by building him a siege tower?’ Tancred asked. ‘Who then will have the plundering of Ma’arrat?’
That brought silence: any tower built for Apulians would not be gifted as a weapon to the Provencals, which set up another bout of murmuring, though this time it had a deeper and more irate tone that made Tancred think of a disturbed beehive. They had so recently been talking about what they could each gain if Ma’arrat fell; his claim had got them to consider the unpalatable fact that they might secure nothing.
‘My friends,’ he called, getting to his feet, ‘I thank you for the hot wine and the talk.’
Standing at the same time, Bardel clasped Tancred’s hand. ‘Drop by as you please, for you are ever welcome.’
The sound then emitted from some of the others gave a lie to his words.
‘And I invite you to join us in our lines, perhaps in the manege we have set up by the Aleppo road.’
‘Do you Normans never cease to test each other?’
‘No, Bardel, and in truth, if it hones our skills it also eases the boredom. You would be well to take up my offer, for I fear you will be sitting round your fires for so long your skills will rust along with your weapons.’
The message came to Bohemund the next day, given to him as he and his knights emerged from their daily session of practice, each still heaving from their exertions. There had been fighting on foot with sword and shield in the manege, but no lance work; as yet the Apulians had been unable to replace their fighting destriers, horses trained to be fearless in battle in the very same kind of sand-filled enclosure in which they had just been exercising their combat skills.