His gamble paid off. The army knew that this would be their first and last chance to take the accursed city. The enemy had taunted them, from their ramparts, for months. It is easy to be brave behind walls.
A rasping cry of “Allahu Akbar” went up, but it was soon drowned out by the thunderous refrain of, “God wills it!”
God and hate fuelled the crusaders’ advance. Hate fomented over six months. Six months of disease, starvation and close companions dying. But now the gates to the city were finally open.
Blood called for blood. The crusaders found extra strength and speed to assault their enemies, eating up the ground in front of them. The Turks were caught between the knights inside the city and Bohemond’s ravenous troops. God was with them. The infidels scattered, like ashes in a breeze, when they realised that all was lost. Fulk kicked the ankles of a retreating guard, who had swapped sentry duties with his cousin for the evening. The knight then bludgeoned the floored Turk to death with several blows to his head. An unholy, shrill gurgle emanated from one of the Antiochene manning the battlements as an arrow slashed through his nose and left eye. Owen took great pride in being able to shoot more prolifically – and accurately – than the crossbowmen standing next to him. The torrent of arrows and quarrels raining down on the guards prevented them from mobilising themselves properly, in order to rain missiles down on the ungodly invaders.
Corpses were trodden on, like weeds, as Bohemond’s army entered the city. He positioned himself at the vanguard of his force – at the tip of the spear point. Occasionally he glanced back, to ensure that his banner man was close. To stake his claim to the city.
Bugles were sounded, to signal to Godfrey’s army, concealed under the cover of darkness outside the city to advance. Godfrey briefly wondered if the horns at the walls of Jericho sounded similar. Bohemond issued the order for part of his company to advance and open the gate. He would also muster a force to attack the citadel. Not only did he need to be wary of Raymond occupying the fortification, but he couldn’t afford the Turks to possess it either. An intelligence report cited that the citadel was furnished with its own water cistern and generously provisioned. “We are more likely to entice a snail out of its shell than expel the Turks from their fortress, if they garrison it properly,” Bohemond warned his men.
Bohemond was pleased to see Hugh alive and the two men greeted one another enthusiastically. The prince noticed that blood freckled his friend’s face. But it was fine. It was the blood of their foes.
There would be little respite, however - and they dare not celebrate yet. The night would be long. Already a contingent of armed citizens and soldiers were forming up at the end of the street, carrying spears, cudgels and kitchen knives. Their foreign tongues were doubtless spitting out curses, rather than declarations of surrender. Bohemond instructed a group of troops, fresh and eager to bloody their swords, to form up and charge the enemy. Just as he was doing so however a commotion ensued amongst the gathering Turks, as they were attacked from behind by, as Bohemond would soon discover, a mob of Christians and Armenians native to the city. They wanted to punish their persecutors, as well as declare themselves allies of the crusaders. They would fight with them, rather than against them.
Godfrey’s army entered the city as did Raymond’s. They flowed through the gates and streets, like the Orontes bursting its banks. As when a drunk will spill his wine cup and clumsily try to scoop up the dregs to put back into the vessel, the Turks could not repel the enemy pouring through the city. The crusaders were possessed, by God of the Devil, as fiery eyed as the stars.
The garrison owned the numbers to engage and potentially expel the invaders, but they lacked the organisation and leadership. Yaghi Siyan woke to a nightmare. On hearing the news that the westerners were inside the walls the terrified governor chose flight over fight. He gathered up certain portable valuables and, accompanied by his personal bodyguard, Siyan escaped through the Iron Gate, leaving the Antiochene to their fate, uttering all manner of curses at Kerbogha for not arriving earlier.
As Siyan glanced back at the city, having used his mount to barge through the throng of other departing citizens, he couldn’t help but notice the growing plumes of smoke, entwined like rope, scarring the black, velvety night.
Siyan’s son, Shams ad-Daulah, displayed more courage and initiative than his father, however – and not only because he couldn’t display any less. He collected what troops he could find and ascended the slopes of Mount Silphius to secure the citadel. Holding the fortress could serve as a rallying point for the rest of the city, or provide a base to counterattack from, once Kerbogha’s army engaged the perfidious infidels.
Thomas peered out of the window, at the ladder. Bohemond had nicknamed it “Jakob’s Ladder” earlier.
“And once you scale it later the battle might be akin to a contest with God. But I have faith you will prevail. Because you will have to.”
The youth thought how he could easily climb down and venture back to the camp. Many in Bohemond’s army already considered the non-combatant to be a coward. Thomas felt like he was going to be sick. He had just come back from surveying the city from the battlements. Antioch was being put to the sword – and the torch. Flames were beginning to crackle through the gelid air. He felt little pride or a sense of glory when he spied Bohemond’s banner through a pall of smoke. Adhemar had advised the Englishman not to put himself in danger, during the assault.
“Save yourself,” the bishop remarked.
Adhemar’s words briefly sounded like a siren song, enticing him to return to safety. People would forgive him for his actions. Yet Thomas couldn’t forgive himself, nor should God forgive him, should he abandon the woman he had vowed to save. A promise is a promise. Even if his friend was acting dishonourably, or if Edward was dead, Thomas couldn’t be dissuaded from his course. Tonight must witness at least one act of chivalry, he determined. The Englishman whispered the name, “Yeva”, as he had once lovingly whispered the word “Jerusalem”.
Thomas descended the steps of the tower rather than use the ladder. An acrid smell of smoke, like sulphur, filled his nostrils. He heard the screams of people dying, being slaughtered, in the distance. But the screams were getting closer. The scribe briefly closed his eyes and pictured the map of the city. Yeva’s house wasn’t as close as he would have liked. But every journey starts with a first step. Thomas set off whilst clasping his sword, although he was unsure how useful it would be if he drew it.
Dawn was breaking, bleeding light like an open wound.
The Turks had sowed the seed. Now they were reaping the whirlwind, Raymond of Toulouse judged as he observed his men execute another enemy officer, by cleaving his head from his body. The tang of blood and smoke were as welcome as the finest perfume to the soldier.
Godfrey’s men and the Christian inhabitants of the city opened the Bridge Gate, which Raymond’s army stormed through. His company fought with skill and savagery as they swiftly overcame Turkish resistance. It was butchery, rather than a battle. Bodies were dragged or kicked to the kerb. The flagstones were slick with blood.
Raymond nodded in satisfaction as Henri reported how his knights had secured the nearby Palace of Antioch. “No prisoners,” he had instructed, before the attack. The prince wondered if his wife might finally forgive him, should he install her in the palace like a queen. But even more than the palace Raymond wanted to capture the strategic prize of the city’s citadel. Raymond gave the order for Henri to lead as large a unit as he saw fit to capture the fortress – before Bohemond could.
“Do what you have to do,” Raymond ordered, in response to his lieutenant asking what he should so, should he encounter Bohemond’s men. The Frank had already noted how his rival’s army hadn’t helped open the Bridge Gate. Had Bohemond’s plan been to keep Raymond’s forces outside the city, whilst the Norman had free reign to procure all of Antioch’s assets? “If Bohemond can break his promise to the Emperor, I can break my promise to him.”
> Death and dishonour were legion, spreading throughout Antioch like fire.
Screams pierced the night like sharpened lances but Bohemond’s heart was armoured against such sounds. He could not now stop the slaughter or looting, even if he wished to do so. The screams were now emanating from women, as well as soldiers. To the victor, the spoils, the commander would have argued.
Bohemond’s stentorian voice rose above the background noise. In order to further cement his claim to the city, the prince gave an order to find and apprehend Antioch’s governor. His plan was to commit Siyan to signing the city – and its treasury - over to him. Bohemond might need his young scribe to help draft the decree.
“It’s time to fetch Thomas. I may have need of him,” the Norman remarked to Edward.
“I’ll bring him here,” the Englishman dutifully replied.
But it was easier said than done. When Edward returned to the room near the watchtower, he only found Firuz, clutching his chest of gold, and his two attendants. Thomas had taught the Armenian a few words of English, in case his countryman returned.
“He find Yeva,” Firuz exclaimed, repeatedly, pointing downstairs.
“Bloody holy fool!” Edward pronounced, to the Armenian, himself or the world – whilst kicking a cup on the floor against the wall. His stomach lurched, imagining Thomas making his way through the volatile city. He was as good as dead, Edward thought. The knight could have returned to Bohemond and explained that Thomas had disappeared. But he didn’t.
Edward stood at the foot of the watchtower, first glancing up the street which would lead him back to safety. And then he surveyed the route which would take him to the city’s interior. The wind chilled his sweat-glazed cheeks. His hair was matted with gore. He had jarred his knee during the skirmish at the Gate of St George and blood seeped from a wound in his thigh, from a Turkish leaf-shaped blade. He felt his strength ebbing away with the blood loss. His throat was as dry as the deserts he’d crossed. Water would have been good. Ale better.
Edward didn’t quite know where he was going. Having not memorised
the map Thomas had drawn up, he prayed to God to direct him. The soldier had to have faith, as he turned into a narrow street littered with corpses and puddles of blood. Buildings seemed to be leaning over him, as if they were about to collapse. But enough light seeped in. The bodies were contorted. Mangled. Skulls were staved in. Eyes were still open – piteous or accusatory. Flies started to congregate over glistening wounds. A couple of crusaders lay, like an island, in a sea of dead Turks. It was difficult to tell where the red crosses on their shoulders ended and the blood began.
War cries and the clash at arms still vaunted upwards and across Antioch, like the plumes of smoke. The pilgrims were in the ascendency, however. Turkish soldiers were dying or retreating. A few streets later Edward encountered a couple of crusaders exiting a house. The first was wiping his dagger on his sleeve, the second was fastening his britches and belt – and wiping the saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We were just having some fun. Sorry, we ended her. She screamed too much. The bitch had plenty of fight in her, but no money in her purse,” the swarthy Frank remarked.
Edward pictured Emma being assaulted and the thought flashed through his mind that he should skewer the rapist. End him. Save others. But another half a dozen soldiers stumbled out of the house. Edward couldn’t take them all on. He couldn’t protect Thomas or Yeva if he was dead.
“Your orders are to travel back to the Gate of St George,” Edward said, flatly.
“We still haven’t got our dues,” the soldier, who had wiped his dagger clean, asserted. He was keen to loot – and have as much fun as possible – for as long as possible.
“If you don’t return to Bohemond then you risk him giving you what he thinks you’re due,” Edward warned. “I’ve heard that Fulk has already punished a number of men who defied orders,” he added, lying, planting a seed a terror in their minds.
The threat of earning Bohemond and Fulk’s displeasure brought the infantrymen into line. They may have mumbled certain grievances, but they started to make their way back, away from where they could murder, pilfer and rape.
Edward condemned himself as a holy fool, for continuing to endanger himself and search for Thomas. He walked on – witnessing more than a few soldiers coming out of shops and houses, carrying all manner of goods, like lines of pack animals. The knight also observed plenty of Turks, carrying children or their most valued possessions, running away from the fighting. Edward often concealed himself in doorways. Partly he didn’t want to be attacked by any Antiochene – and partly he didn’t want to unduly scare them. For the past year the word “Turk” had been synonymous with the word “enemy”. But now he considered some of them to be victims. The veteran soldier had taken part in more than one sacking before. But he was increasingly viewing this one through fresh eyes.
Along with the Antiochene, Edward spotted hordes of Franks sweeping through the streets. He suspected that many were being ordered to attack the citadel. Each prince knew the strategic value of capturing the fortress. The Englishman sometimes paused to take in groups or individual crusaders in the half light, in the hope of locating his countryman. But it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Edward reasoned that he could spend a month wending his through the criss-crossing streets and still not encounter the youth. But he had to still try. The knight would not abandon his friend, as Thomas would not abandon the girl.
15.
Thomas moved through the dim city streets as swiftly as possible, avoiding both fellow crusaders and Antiochene alike. At one point he considered that he might have died and turned into a ghost, as people looked his way but didn’t necessarily see him. Bohemond had once half-joked that he should turn his scribe into a spy, as no one seemed to notice when he came and went. Even when the darkness began to melt away like ice and a milky, morning light dripped through the city, Thomas remained unseen.
There was more than one instance when he took the long way around, to avoid detection. He was sometimes frozen in fear too and needed to collect himself. Thomas encountered dozens of blood-strewn corpses, in the wake of soldiers pillaging and abducting women. He vomited on viewing and smelling the charred remains of a young girl. Severed ears and hands littered the ground. He considered the Franks to be similar to a plague of Egypt. Locusts. The gates of Hell had been opened. Was Bohemond of the Devil’s party? The student imagined that his journey across the city resembled Virgil’s descent into the underworld. Thomas witnessed sights he wished to un-see. A group of soldiers, carrying lances, amused themselves by each stabbing an elderly Turk. Their laughter drowned out his groans of agony as they drew blood with each strike, albeit they ensured that they didn’t kill their victim, lest they end their sport too prematurely.
He felt shame and then contempt in relation to his Christian brothers. There was nothing holy about their crusade tonight. They wouldn’t be able to ever wash out the stain of sin, as their clothes would forever smell of smoke. He tried to recall a passage from the Bible, or from the Song of Roland, to gift himself some consolation – but his mind was blank. Burnt out. For once Thomas craved wine and ale over water and milk. His throat was sore, like he had swallowed a cup of hot iron filings. His legs frequently felt like they might give way, as if he had been running over cobblestones. The pilgrim’s faith began to ebb away, like the blood and ordure running down the gutter.
How could God allow such heinous crimes in His name? If this was all part of some grand plan, it was a plan that he wanted no part of. Edward’s words chimed in Thomas’ ears, that “the world is an unpleasant place, filled with unpleasant people.” Even if the Christian devoted his life to uttering one long, devout prayer it still wouldn’t make a jot of difference in trying to redeem the wickedness in the world. It would be easier to extract the darkness out of the night, than remove sin from the world.
But Thomas believed that if he somehow saved Yeva,
all would be redeemed. Honour would be satisfied. He still believed that the beautiful, virtuous woman was waiting for him. He would keep his word. Yet the Englishman’s heart pounded with apprehension, as well as ardour, as he thought how Yeva might not be alone when he found her. His skin prickled. What if her husband were present? What if she was being held captive or being assaulted by a pack of soldiers? What could he do to stop them? Even if he could summon the courage to draw his sword and attack them, they would easily disarm and slay him.
But he would save her, Thomas resolutely told himself.
God wills it.
When Edward first heard the cry, as he strode down through the alley, leaning forward as if he were walking against a headwind, he didn’t think to pause. He had grown inured, immune, to such sounds – having heard them during past campaigns. If truth be told he had occasionally been the cause of such screams.
But the knight now halted – and tacked back towards the desperate howls of terror and grief, from the woman, slicing through the vented shutters of the house. He also heard a child, bawling, too. The knight pictured Emma being assaulted again. The cries of the child would have been similar to his own, after his parents had been murdered by Norman soldiers all those years ago.
Edward walked through the door, which remained ajar from being forced open. Even in a foreign tongue, begging still sounded like begging. As the knight entered the room he wondered if the woman was pleading for her own life or her child’s. The chamber, which served as both a kitchen and dining area, had been ransacked, like it had been caught up in a tempest.
The first Frank, Peter, who seemed little older than Thomas, was holding a knife to the boy’s throat (the child was trembling like a leaf, blubbing, uttering the same word over and over again). The soldier was gaunt – as lean as a tent pole. He no longer filled out his hauberk. A Y-shaped scar, like a bird’s footprint, branded his left cheek. He stared at Edward, his mouth agape, either shocked or seething that he had been disturbed. The second soldier, standing over the woman, was older – grizzled. He was in the process of transferring the contents of a jewellery box into a leather bag. The crusader, Bruno was a former tavern owner from Caen. What profits he didn’t gamble away, he drank. The pilgrimage offered the debtor a chance to earn some booty and return him to his station.
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