Siege

by Richard Foreman

  Bohemond heaped praise on his translator for his work. When he clapped Thomas on the shoulder the youth’s legs nearly gave way. Without the scribe, he would not now be in the position to take the city. He acceded to Thomas’ request to give him a large portion of the money he was safekeeping for him – in order to pass on the coin to Adhemar to distribute food to the neediest pilgrims.

  “You have more steel in you than you might realise lad. You must have acquitted yourself well,” Bohemond stated, in a more convivial tone than usual. “You now have a taste for battle, eh?”

  Thomas was too tired or frightened to contradict the figure who towered over him.

  “God will reward your service in the next life, but I shall try to reward you in this one. You have earned the honour of being part of the force who will storm the city. I may have need of your talents as a translator during and after the attack.”

  Thomas didn’t feel particularly honoured and was unable to thank his prince. As much as his heart was flooded with fear by the prospect of storming the city, he realised that he needed to do so if he was to keep his promise and save Yeva. Thomas had given his oath, like a knight-errant. To break his word would be a grave sin. He shuddered at the thought. He also shuddered at the thought of joining a forlorn hope.

  Bohemond turned his attention next to Edward and Hugh, who proffered a more detailed account of the engagement.

  “They were Franks, as opposed to Turks. I didn’t recognise anyone, but I’d be willing to wager that they were Raymond’s men,” Hugh argued. “Unfortunately, it’s difficult to interrogate the dead.”

  “If the bastards were able to shoot a crossbow properly then you’d be giving out funeral orations rather than jugs of wine,” Edward added.

  Bohemond scratched his beard and his eyes narrowed. He used his thumb to turn a ring on his finger, given to him by his father, as if he were turning cogs in his mind. Wheels within wheels. Although it was often difficult to divine what the Norman was thinking, it was clear that he was thinking – which one couldn’t necessarily make the claim for in relation to other noblemen. Others might have asserted that Bohemond was always scheming, instead of thinking, if they were being uncharitable.

  “It doesn’t surprise me, that Raymond would act in such a dishonourable manner. It’s further evidence that he cares more for his own interest than he does for the campaign,” Bohemond pontificated, without a flicker of irony. “The man is not fit to lead a pack of brigands, let alone knights. I need to be disappointed, as opposed to vengeful, however. Even if I could provide cast iron proof of his involvement and guilt, I would have to tread carefully. Or step back from accusing him. I may not need Raymond, but I do need his army still to secure the city. It’s now the case though where I trust the Muslim convert traitor, Firuz, over my supposed Christian brother. You should always think the worse of people – and then you will never be betrayed by them. The world may not be an inherently wicked place – although nature is prone to savagery and selfishness – but it is populated with wicked people. But not everyone is wicked. You trusted this Varhan, did you not?” Bohemond asked Edward.

  “I’m not sure if I wholly trust anyone. In my experience horses and dogs can be trusted, but not men. The Armenian seemed sincere though, or he is an even more accomplished actor than I am a seasoned drinker. He even petitioned us to save his niece, once we’re inside the city.”

  “If Varhan can be trusted, then I’m further assured that we can trust his confederate inside the city. Firuz’s plan is audacious, but not without merit. We must submit to it. We do not have time to organise an alternative strategy, before Kerbogha graces us with his presence. We must do or die,” Bohemond determined, his taut features hardening even more. He appreciated however how fatigued his men must be. Edward appeared so haggard that he feared the knight’s skin might fall from his face like melting wax. The prince proceeded to dismiss his soldiers.

  Whilst Edward, Thomas and plunged themselves into sleep, their bodies feeling like one large bruise, Bohemond remained awake. He prowled around his chamber, like a tiger in a cage, his head bowed, as if in prayer. He was so close to realising his ambition – solidifying a dream. The prince recalled his visit to the Church of Santa Sophia in Constantinople. He was nearly blinded by the polished marble floors and vaunting columns, leading up to a spacious and majestic domed ceiling. One felt like one’s voice could reach up to heaven. Shafts of pristine, amber light poked through the windows – like the fingers of God. The building was awe-inspiring, a monument to God, engineering and art. Breath-taking. Faith giving. The church was the jewel in the crown of Constantinople. A sense of humility and grace came over Bohemond, as much as Bohemond could ever feel grace and humility. The pungent aroma of incense stirred his noble nostrils and soul. If ever God was going to listen to the Norman, he believed it would be here. The hulking soldier removed his sword and fell to his knees. But not to pray. He did not ask God to help him in his desire to become king of Antioch or Jerusalem. Rather, he told the Almighty what his intentions were – and that even if God disapproved of his actions, Bohemond would defy Him and still fulfil his destiny. He would cut down every last man between Constantinople and Antioch, like a forester hacking through a dense wood, if he had to. The Christian prince also resolved that Constantinople should be his ultimate goal. But one step at a time. He was only a mere mortal, rather than deity, unfortunately. Alexios, as opposed to Kerbogha, was his ultimate enemy. Bohemond knew that the Emperor didn’t trust him. He knew that he detested him. But the Norman would one day wipe the superior smile off the Byzantine’s perfumed face.

  Bohemond had spent the rest of that day travelling around the wondrous, prosperous city in a state of ambition and admiration. Constantinople was home to the largest hippodrome he had ever seen, an array of churches, bathhouses, markets and a zoo. The Emperor’s spies followed him. Bohemond knew he was being followed. Partly the commander was mapping the city and noting its strategic strengths and weaknesses. He cast his eye over the Blachernae Gate, fastened with iron bolts and guarded with two flanking crenelated towers, manned with archers. Not even Joshua could bring down such walls, his nephew, Tancred, had commented. But one day Bohemond would return, with a more powerful army. As Robert Guiscard had once disclosed to his young son, “No one will ever give you anything for free in this world. You have to take things, by might or guile.” The famed city was almost impregnable. Almost.

  Morning.

  The dawn glowed, as much as the Count of Toulouse's bloodshot - from rage and wine - eyes. The mission had been an abject failure. Raymond was still no wiser as to the details of Bohemond's strategy to procure the city - and still no closer to taking it from him. The skirmish had been a waste of good men, men that he could ill afford to lose. He cursed his nephew. This campaign was supposed to make a man of him. But the prince was not an alchemist. He couldn't turn lead - or shit - into gold. Only his affection for the boy's mother prevented Raymond from ordering his hunting hounds to tear him limb from limb - or running his sword through the youth. Or he could have easily ordered Henri to remove his nephew from the world. The knight would have done so with pleasure. Not even a hammer and chisel could alter the scowl on the furious soldier's face. Henri may have also relished the prospect of digging the grave or tossing the corpse on a burning pit himself.

  Girard stood before his uncle once more. In disgrace. A failure. Awaiting punishment. A couple of men from his company had returned from their mission - and had shown as much loyalty to Girard as he had shown to them. Raymond had asked them to report on the disastrous events which occurred in the night:

  "Tell the truth. If I suspect that you are lying to me, it'll be the last words you utter."

  The fatigued, injured soldiers provided an alternative version of how the mission imploded, which contradicted Girard's version. The nobleman was responsible for the attack. The nobleman was responsible for the defeat. When confronted with the truth, in the presence of both Raymond and
Henri, Girard broke down and pleaded for forgiveness. His crime was wanting to succeed. To serve. If only his crossbowmen would have hit their targets, they would be celebrating rather than censuring him right now, Girard argued. His men had let him down. Words and excuses poured out of him, like diarrhoea, Henri judged.

  "A bad workman blames his tools. Your men behaved with ten times more honour than you displayed. If only one of the stray quarrels would have went so awry, as to cut you down, as you remained outside the fight. But there doesn't seem to be that much justice in the world, divine or otherwise," Raymond flatly remarked, unstinting in his condemnation. "Your company is forfeit. Your wealth is forfeit. Your brother was right to disinherit you. There are cowards and thieves belonging to Peter the Hermit's rabble who possess more honour than you."

  Raymond became sick to his stomach of looking upon his wretched nephew - and dismissed him from his sight. As Girard made his way out of the chamber, what little composure Raymond maintained was abandoned - and the prince comically spouted a litany of curses at the nobleman whilst launching various pieces of food and cutlery at his back.

  "Family! You can't live with them - and one can't always execute them," the prince stated, humourlessly. "Girard is the least of my concerns, however. It is likely that Bohemond knows that we were behind the attack on his men. He may be out for blood - or may look to publicly condemn me. If required, I will claim that Girard's company, tired of his degenerate habits and poor leadership, deserted. I can argue that they attacked Bohemond's men independently. It is not uncommon for pilgrims to behave like brigands and steal from their own. I suspect that Bohemond will keep the events of last night quiet. He will want to plough ahead with his plan - and he will not be able to do so if he causes ruptures within the Council of Princes. But let us address such issues, if or when they arrive. You must be tired, my friend. I am grateful for your service, as usual. Get some rest and we shall speak later."

  Henri was tempted to offer his prince some words of support or consolation, but he was too weary or indignant. The knight felt that the prince should have punished his nephew more severely. If it was up to him, the mercenary would have slit the youth's throat and let him bleed out, so the last thing he heard was his own death rattle. Henri merely pursed his lips, perhaps biting his tongue as he did so, and took his leave.

  Raymond dismissed a couple of obsequious attendants who entered, requiring instructions on an array of subjects, and slumped upon his iron chair. He offered up a few curses, directed towards his nephew, Bohemond and the world in general, before puffing air out of his cheeks in exasperation. And then he growled. As did his stomach. The joints in his knees cracked. Time was catching up with the powerful magnate. There were occasions, before the infernal campaign, when the count boasted that he felt half the age he was. Now he sometimes felt that he was twice the age he was. Raymond mused how he could often split logs with his axe with just a couple of strokes. Now it took three or four blows. As a younger man he could, like a young Caesar, run and leap onto the back of his horse. It had been decades since he had attempted such a trick, for fear of making a fool of himself in front of his men. It was not just important that he gain the respect of the world in this life. The warrior and nobleman wanted his fame to outlive him, after his cold body had been buried in the ground. Raymond wanted his name to endure for as long as the marble statue of himself, brandishing his sword and shield, with his crest emblazoned on the front, at his castle in Toulouse. His achievements should live on - and not just through the chronicles and poems he had commissioned writers to produce.

  His victories had been numerous, from his home in Provencal to the Levant. The count was feared and respected in equal measure. The peasantry of Toulouse revered him - prayed for him. Raymond had garnered a list of titles throughout his life, but the prince still wasn't a king. Even Baldwin called himself king now. Bohemond was aiming to do the same. Raymond bristled at the prospect and balled his hand into a fist, whilst grinding his teeth. He had joined the crusade with the intention of becoming king of Antioch or Jerusalem. Or both. Regret pinched him again. Before committing to the cause, he should have demanded being given overall command of the armies of God. He possessed leverage, back then. Urban and Adhemar had exploited him - when, usually, the Count of Toulouse was accustomed to exploiting others.

  God had blessed and protected him all his life. But had his sins, like time, finally caught up with him? God had abandoned, disinherited, the prince. Raymond's young son had died during the campaign and he had lost the devotion of his wife, Elvira. She didn't say anything to openly defy or undermine him. But she didn't need to.

  The powerful Frank had sacrificed everything for the cause. But all was not lost. Raymond thought about an aged boxer, he had once seen, floor a young challenger. The iron-haired warrior still had some fight left in him. If he couldn't procure the city, he still might be able to capture and claim the citadel, which looked out over Antioch like an eagle surveying its territory. Bohemond would be all too aware of the eyrie's strategic importance. He would devote a certain portion of his forces to secure the fortress. Raymond would do the same. It would be a race. A bloody one.

  More than Kerbogha, Raymond considered Bohemond to be his chief enemy. He wasn't alone in such a judgement. Recognising that they shared a mutual enemy, Raymond and Alexios allied themselves with one another. Bohemond had declared war on his own brother in the past. There was reason to believe he would eventually betray the Byzantines and pilgrims. Raymond recalled his meeting with the Emperor, during his first night at the Blachernae Palace. Alexios had invited the Frank, wearing both a sword and surplice, into a chamber filled with tribute for the prince. Raymond squinted at the sight of ornate, bejewelled weapons, finely crafted diadems, a glittering array of coins and sparkling baubles, which appeared like ripened fruit, waiting to be plucked.

  "For the greatest of western princes, we must grant the greatest treasure," Alexios smoothly remarked, smiling. "’Tis a gift, rather than a bribe, of course. Unlike your fellow noblemen, I will not compel you to swear an oath of fealty. I trust you. You have proved yourself to be a man of honour and a man of God."

  Raymond nodded in reply. He knew that the politic leader was flattering him - but he indulged his generous host.

  "As you know, rulers must serve too. I heard a calling - and took the cross."

  "If only I could believe that all in your party were as honourable as yourself. You share my concerns, I believe," Alexios exclaimed, knowing that the westerner did, as his spies had intercepted his guest's correspondence. "We have a mutual goal, of liberating Jerusalem and expelling the Turks from our territories. But we also possess a mutual enemy, in Bohemond. He is his father's son, a serpent of the devil's brood. I have no doubt that the faithless Norman will break his oath, as surely as the scorpion stung the frog in Aesop's fable. Yet Bohemond will wait till he crosses the river, before striking. You are the only man in a position to challenge and rein in the warmonger. Robert of Normandy is honourable and pious but lacks military prowess. Godfrey lacks your authority and leadership skills. Adhemar possesses the power to charm instead of command. The former is a laudable trait for a diplomat, but to be a soldier one must exhibit the latter. The bishop is a fine preacher and philosopher - I have much enjoyed his urbane company - but he is no military leader. I have the utmost respect for your pontiff, but Urban made a grave mistake by not investing you with overall command of the campaign. The armed pilgrimage should not suffer - or perish - for the error. We both know that popes can be fallible, as all men are fallible," Alexios argued, although he failed to mention whether emperors were fallible too.

  "What's past is past. We must look to the future now."

  That evening, Raymond and Alexios formed a delicate alliance. The Byzantine emperor promised the Frankish nobleman untold riches should he help him secure Antioch and Jerusalem for the glory of God and the empire. Raymond presented his host with a ceremonial sword, which he claimed belonged to
Charlemagne. Alexios offered his guest the use of his chief mistress – and a Bible rumoured to have once been the property of Louis the Pious. The two powerful men told themselves that they were bringing together the best of the East and West. The armed pilgrimage could just be the start of a new era of cooperation. The days of Turkish expansion were numbered. There would no longer be a great schism between the two Christian realms. Anything was possible. The future seemed bright, for one brief moment.

  That balmy evening was a lifetime ago, however, Raymond despondently thought, as he tried to prop himself up on his chair. Before the siege of Nicaea and battle at Dorylaeum. Before Baldwin's self-serving campaign. Before the weeping sore of Antioch. Before the death of his son. Sometimes Raymond would stare in private, in a maudlin fashion, at a portrait he had commissioned of his son. His innocent son. The artist had captured his impish expression and wide, bright aspect - full of curiosity and wonder. But at other instances the boy's father could not even bring himself to be in the same room as the painting. The image or memories made his eyes, or soul, burn.

  What had his ally sacrificed? What had Alexios lost? Even when establishing a spirit of cooperation Raymond had little intention of delivering up the prizes of both Antioch and Jerusalem to the decadent Emperor. Raymond often pictured Alexios, wearing make-up, ogling his courtiers or ruminating on how he could exploit friends and enemies alike. Everyone else in the world was born to serve the semi-divine Emperor. To amuse him. To praise him. To toil for him. To fight for him. But the Frank, once he was in possession of Antioch, would not then surrender it to the self-serving Byzantines - especially as it was now likely that the armies of God wouldn't reach Jerusalem. The Holy City seemed even further away now than when the count sat by his hearth back in Provencal and first corresponded with Urban about the campaign. The crusade. The doomed crusade.