“He is the worst of a bad bunch. Or somehow the best too. He is as unscrupulous as a lawyer, as untrustworthy as a priest and as barbaric as the most chivalrous knight.”
The princes would be loath to admit it, but Tatikios’ intelligence and tactical advice concerning their enemies had proved invaluable.
Adhemar was conscious of praying for his old friend, as well as his recent companion. He had conferred with Raymond of Toulouse, even before Clermont. Without Raymond’s army their pilgrimage would have perished. Raymond had spearheaded the crusade. Before Constantinople, the Frank was one of the most powerful men in Christendom. But his beard was now more streaked with grey than brown. His hand sometimes trembled when he lifted his wine cup or sword. Raymond had told his friend that this would be his last campaign. “We will be the twin pillars of the crusade, secular and spiritual. The sword and the cross. I will answer Urban’s call, for the glory of God,” Raymond declared. He would die in the East, if God willed it, he confessed to Adhemar. The bishop prayed to God for an alternative fate for his companion. Let him live. Let him see Jerusalem. Let him find peace.
Yet the bishop wondered whether Raymond could ever find peace through arms, or in his heart. He had grown embittered – or more embittered – since the beginning of the campaign. The sin of pride ran bone deep. Pride blinded him. He would rather see Bohemond defeated, than have his rival triumph over their real enemies. Adhemar recalled the words of Tatikios:
“Raymond is a man who knows that his best years are behind him. But for all of his valour on the battlefield he lacks the courage to confront this simple truth.”
Adhemar remembered how he used to host Raymond at his residence. They would talk about church reform, gossip about the affairs of local noblemen and discuss the troubles in the East. The bishop felt a pang of regret as he pictured them both around his dinner table, sharing a fine meal in front of the hearth. He told himself that they were worldly trappings – but he longed for his library, cook, soft bed and garden. But home was, like the past, another country. One that he would never see again, he lamented.
The bishop prayed that Kerbogha and his army might somehow be delayed, that the pilgrimage could receive a stay of execution. Adhemar had been able to intervene by feeding Kerbogha false intelligence, that Edessa contained untold riches. The Turks subsequently delayed their march on Antioch, by besieging Baldwin’s city. Edessa stood firm, and eventually Kerbogha turned his attention to his principle aim – of destroying the crusader army. Adhemar now prayed for some divine intervention. They would need to snatch victory, from the jaws of defeat, one last time.
At one moment the bishop seemed serene, meditating like a peripatetic philosopher, but at others he appeared in utter turmoil. His mouth twitched and his eyeballs rolled beneath his lids, like he was experiencing a nightmare. His knees creaked and ached, from too much praying.
Yet the ardent and admirable Christian continued to pray. For Bohemond. Tatikios had commented that he was “the best and worst of the Norman princes… He is as trustworthy as a Turk.” Bohemond had tricked and bullied his companions into getting his own way. Yet, should he secure Antioch, all would be forgiven. He would be their Achilles and Odysseus.
A gust of wind slapped against the side of the canvas tent. One of the oil lamps burned out, plunging the bishop’s altar into darkness. Before Adhemar retired though he spared one last thought and prayer for his English friend. That Edward would learn how to pray too.
6.
Morning.
Shafts of sunlight speared through clumps of cloud. The oppressive heat sapped what little strength people could muster.
The three men – Edward, Owen and Thomas – stood in a small clearing in Bohemond’s camp. A few spots of blood and broken rings, which had fallen off pieces of mail during practise bouts between soldiers, littered the hard ground.
The Welshman, who would have confessed that he was far from the greatest swordsman in Christendom, rolled his eyes in exasperation has he glanced at Edward and passed judgement on Thomas’ swordsmanship. He felt like running a finger across his throat, to communicate that Thomas would be a dead man, should he have to fight for his life in battle. The lesson was not going well. Despite all his previous tutelage, the scribe was still limp-wristed and flat-footed. Owen liked the lad, but he could not help him if he was unwilling to help himself. The archer had a flat, ruddy face. He enjoyed a good drink and a good bout of singing, in that order, although it had been some time since he felt that there was anything to sing about – including Thomas’ progress handling a sword. The attacking and defensive moves the Welshman attempted to impart were only basic, but they still seemed beyond the student. Thomas’ risible performance would have been funny, if his life wasn’t at stake. He was lacking in effort and application. Time was growing short. Thomas would be called upon to fight if, or when, Kerbogha gave battle. He’s a dead man walking, the bowman thought to himself.
As Owen went to retrieve his wineskin to quench his thirst Edward stepped in to have a word with Thomas. The slight, young Englishman was bent over, in a stoop, as he stood dressed in a mail shirt, his breathing laboured. His face was pinched in worry, beneath a pool of sweat. Not so much from his lacklustre display, but from the blister forming on his palm. He needed his hands free from injury, so he could write.
Edward realised that, instead of trying to offer words of encouragement to the student, he should instil fear in him. It was for the scribe’s own good. The knight didn’t want his fellow Englishman’s blood on his hands.
“You’ll soon have to enter the lion’s den. But you’re no fucking Daniel. You’ll need more than just the power of prayer when a Turk crosses your path, wielding a gruesome scimitar. He’ll happily gut you like a fish and spit on your corpse. If you think I’m saying this to put the fear of God in you, you’d be right.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be strong enough to handle a sword well,” Thomas said, meekly, by way of an explanation. He didn’t specify whether he meant he wasn’t physically or mentally strong enough. Perhaps he meant both. But Edward wasn’t going to allow his young friend to resign himself to defeat so easily.
“You shouldn’t worry because you’re not overtly strong. If you’re smart – and I know that you can be smart, lad – you can cut down an enemy twice your size. You just need to target his weaknesses – and the softer targets are the best targets. As I’ve instructed you in the past, aim for the neck and groin. The point beats the edge.”
“The point beats the edge,” Thomas echoed, nodding to convey that the words were sinking in. But Edward still felt like he was pissing in the wind.
“If you don’t learn how to kill a man, he’ll kill you. He’ll skewer you, without hesitation. If you think this heat is unforgiving, I can assure you that the Turk is less forgiving.”
“To kill is a sin,” the Christian replied, innocently yet assertively. Edward thought that he had finally unlocked the reason as to why the student wasn’t giving his all. Or even half his all. The knight offered up his own exasperated expression and felt like saying, “God, give me strength.”
“Killing will be your salvation. How many good deeds will you be able to enact when you’re dead? When the choice comes down to whether you or some rotten Seljuk bastard should die, I’d prefer that you live. If God won’t allow you to kill, do you think God will permit you to still wound?” Edward argued, sarcastically. “At the moment you are about as useful in a fight as a eunuch in a brothel. An elder could defeat you, with just his walking stick. Or a ten-year-old girl could out fence you with her hairbrush. Professional soldiers will not be able to carry the day alone. Pilgrims need to be armed with more than just bibles and crosses. Lambs need to become lions, else we will all be slaughtered. You bleat that thou shalt not kill. Don’t be such a damned holy fool, Thomas. Even Adhemar knows when to draw his sword. There’s no hiding place on a battlefield,” the knight posited, although he had known plenty to bury themselves beneath co
rpses, surrender or run away. “Holy war is still war. Barbaric and bloody.”
Thomas’ face reddened, but more in anger than embarrassment.
“I don’t like it when you mock God, Edward. Without God in his life, a man is nothing. An empty vessel. If God is dead, then all is permitted. Without God, we would be little more than beasts. We do not need Circe to cast a spell on us to turn us into brutes. We are prone to wander around, lost, in the dark. But the light shines in the darkness. The enemy of God isn’t the devil. It’s ourselves. But everyone possesses a divine spark,” the Christian argued. The knight loomed over him. At any moment it appeared as if Edward might swat the youth, like an insect. But Thomas stood his ground and remained undaunted.
“I fear I doused out my divine spark some years ago, through all the wine I drank,” Edward countered.
“You do not believe in a higher power, do you?”
“If God is a higher power, perhaps he should try harder. Or not try at all. If God is responsible for the world, he has a lot to answer for, regardless of our fate or not. Given the state of the world under his aegis, God may want to move aside and give someone else a chance, as Raymond needs to move aside and let Bohemond break the siege and lead our armies.”
Edward was momentarily distracted as he heard Owen let out a yawn in the background, as he lay on the ground and squeezed out the last drops of liquid from his wineskin. Thomas was too focussed on wanting to win his argument, or save his friend, to pay attention to the archer.
“Man cannot fathom the full force of God’s power and intentions. We must trust in God’s love and intelligence. God embodies peace and harmony.”
Edward scoffed, raised his hands and kicked the ground. Aghast. Bewildered.
“I am sure God is intelligent enough to appreciate the irony, to talk of peace and harmony in the shadow of Antioch, which will soon doubtless see one of the bloodiest battles in history. The world I know Thomas is not one of amity, interspersed with conflict, but it’s one of war, interspersed with short periods of peace. I would question the wisdom of your God too, given his choice of Peter the Hermit to act as one of his representatives.”
Thomas shook his head, either feeling sorry for his blasphemous friend or refusing to countenance his arguments.
“I will not be able to prove the existence of God for you Edward. Ultimately you will need to make a leap of faith. Faith is to believe in what you cannot see. God calls to us, but individually. Faith isn’t what will damn us. It will be what delivers us. You must have heard a calling, for you to have joined the pilgrimage.”
“I heard the promise of a chinking purse. You may think that everyone is here to help protect their Christian brothers. But some are here for conquest. This crusade is not act of charity, but larceny. You once said that Jerusalem represents the divine to you. For me, it represents retirement.”
“I urge you to pray, Edward. Talk to God and your better self,” Thomas pleaded, consciously or not clutching the cross around his neck.
“What good will it do?”
“What harm could it do? God will hear you. He is omnipresent.”
“Ha! He has a perverse way of showing it,” Edward replied, thinking how God was far from present during the night when his parents were slaughtered. God hadn’t dared to show his face since either, the soldier considered.
“If you will not pray for yourself, I will pray for you.”
“I’m happy for you to do so. God is much more likely to listen to you than me, I imagine. If you could petition the Almighty to provide me with a decent horse, who won’t buckle under the weight of me while in armour. Or you could always ask God to supply me with one of his angels to bear me on his wings and carry me back to England. I would be grateful if I could be left in a spacious cottage, close to a secluded village with a tavern and a stream, plentiful with trout. Hopefully my new home will be far away from any sodomising clergymen and rapacious tax collectors. If God can furnish me with such things then I’ll offer up a prayer as a thank you,” Edward exclaimed, resigned to the scenario that it was unlikely he would see either England or Jerusalem.
“You shouldn’t joke about God,” Thomas protested, his hands balled into fists by his side. Riled. He now appeared as if he might strike the knight.
Edward couldn’t help but let out a burst of withering laughter in reply. What bigger joke was there than God? In the background, if they chose to hear it, the Englishmen could have heard Owen snoring.
“Just take a handful of trusted men,” Bohemond instructed Hugh of Cerisy. The two old friends and campaigners walked through the prince’s armoury. Every now and then Bohemond would pick up a blade and scrutinise its sharpness and straightness. “If you leave the camp with too great a force you may draw attention to yourself. I would be keeping a close watch on me at the moment, so I fail to see why others wouldn’t. We are so near, yet still so far, from our goal. Should it come to it, I am willing to pay more for what Firuz is offering, although hopefully he doesn’t know this. Should it come to it, you will need to try and out-haggle the Armenian. But ultimately you must surrender to his terms.
The knight replied with a short nod. Bohemond trusted Hugh, as much as he could trust anyone. The two men had spilled blood on the same battlefields. The soldier had never balked at an order or sheathed his sword when his commander asked him to draw it.
As well as his service, Hugh owed Bohemond his life. During the Battle of Dorylaeum the knight was unseated from his horse. He fell to the ground. Disorientated and winded. The knight felt the tamp of hooves on the ground and gazed up to see a brace of Turkish horsemen riding towards him, their scimitars glinting in the afternoon sun. His armour seemed twice as heavy as normal. He only managed to get to his knees. His fingertips scurried across the earth, like a spider, trying to reach for his weapon. The soldier felt half-drunk, still reeling from the fall. Hugh’s life flashed before him, inspiring a stinging sense of regret and failure. He rued not taking a wife and having children. He had yet to achieve any fame, so his name wouldn’t live on. He would die, only ever having half lived. Hugh didn’t attempt to rise to his feet or form a plan to avoid the imminent attack. He would surrender to death, rather than to the enemy. The knight prayed, quickly and potently, like a couple of sword thrusts, for God to forgive his sins and for the pilgrims to liberate Jerusalem. Hugh closed his eyes, believing he would never open them. But a killing blow never came, or at least the Norman didn’t suffer a killing blow. Bohemond, his nostrils flared as much as his snorting destrier, charged into the first Turk. Flank slammed against flank. Bohemond’s blade, already slick with the blood of his enemies, pierced through the Seljuk horseman’s ribs, as he found a gap in the Muslim’s armour. The second Turk, his face twisted in rage at the death of his kinsman, carried a large shield, which rendered him invulnerable to the Christian’s sword. But the enemy’s horse was unarmoured. Bohemond spurred his chestnut destrier on and jabbed the point of his sword into the eye of the adjacent mount. The creature let out a piteous cry and then threw its rider.
Bohemond merely nodded at his knight, who found the strength to get to his feet. The prince then rode off, in search of his next combatant – willing to act as a keystone to bolster any weak spot in the fighting. There was a battle to be won.
To take Antioch, however, Bohemond would have to employ guile, before he could deploy his military might.
“In terms of providing some additional insurance, I have requested that Firuz smuggle his son out of the city so we can hold him as a hostage. There is still a small chance that he could play both sides. Again, I would be tempted to act treacherously. We also cannot know for certain if the Armenian isn’t an enemy agent, planted by Siyan. Or it would not be beyond Tatikios to betray us. He once served in an opposing army to my father. “Janus is less two-faced than a Byzantine,” my father used to say. Deceit is a badge of honour, a code, for Tatikios. I just regret not being the foe who mutilated his nose - or turned him into a eunuch. Adhemar
preaches that we are one church, that I should have considered Tatikios a brother. But I was right to cast him out of our campaign. I am but following Christian teaching. Do unto others as they would do unto you,” Bohemond exclaimed, baring his teeth in either a sneer or snarl.
“We do not have any choice but to put our faith in Firuz, it seems,” Hugh said, thinking how he would choose his fastest mount later, lest he be riding into an ambush.
“I have faith in man’s capacity for faithlessness and greed,” Bohemond said, confident that the Armenian traitor would keep his word. “Hopefully his resentment towards Siyan is as substantial as his love of gold too.”
The Norman prince clapped and rubbed his hands together. He permitted himself in a smirk, picturing the look on Raymond’s face when he saved the crusade. His aspect duly glinted, like a newly minted coin, when Bohemond imagined opening the doors to the city’s treasury.
“Firuz is not the only Antiochene who has succumbed to a sense of greed,” Hugh remarked, picking up a mace on a nearby table, assessing its weight and balance. “A merchant from the city has provided us with the plans to the citadel. The drawings he has given us will help with our assault, when the time comes. Would you like to view them now?”
“One step at a time, my friend. I do not want to put the cart before the horse, as much as I am looking forward to hoisting my banner over the city. As Caesar said, it is where one is positioned at the end of the race which matters. It’s now, or never. I remember Steven of Blois once lecturing me that Antioch was almost impregnable.”
Almost.
Edward poured out a measure of ale for himself and Emma, as they sat around a murmuring campfire. They had just finished eating a bowl of pottage. Should he have been served-up the meal in a tavern, back in England, he would have condemned the dish as being akin to swill. Yet he greedily wolfed down the portion he was served. If not for Emma being present, he probably would have licked the bowl, like a dog.
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