Relations were further strained by the emperor's treatment of his Turkish captives. The court officials and wealthy citizens were allowed to buy their freedom, and the sultan's wife was received with honor at Constantinople. She was housed in the royal palace and returned with her children to her husband without ransom. This was a wise policy for Byzantium. Alexius would have to deal with his Muslim neighbors long after the crusade had ended, and rubbing their noses in the defeat would only inflame relations. For the crusaders, however, who had come to defeat the enemies of Christ, this behavior was simply more confirmation of Greek double-dealing.
Despite the reservations, however, there was a certain sense of confidence in the air. The first battle was behind them, and the crusade had been successful. Ahead was the golden promise of Jerusalem. As one of the minor leaders, Stephen of Blois wrote in a gush of optimism to his wife, “In five weeks’ time we shall be at Jerusalem; unless we are held up at Antioch.”
The March across Anatolia
There were two main roads that led from Nicaea to Jerusalem, one that hugged the coast and the other that cut through the heart of the sun-baked interior. Alexius had advised them to stick to the coastal route so that the imperial navy could easily resupply them, but the interior route was shorter. A week after Nicaea fell, the crusade departed. The Byzantine advice was rejected – the journey was already long enough – and the decision was taken to divide the army in two.
Opinion about who was in charge had gradually coalesced behind two candidates, Bohemond and Raymond of Toulouse. Bohemond, who was on good terms with the Byzantine guides, was worried about finding enough supplies, and therefore suggested that they split up. Raymond, who was already annoyed by Bohemond's glory-hogging, was more than happy to comply.
The two columns marched roughly a day apart in spectacularly casual fashion, not bothering to keep in touch. Once again, however, luck was on their side. Kilij Arslan, who had been seriously alarmed by the loss of his capital, had spent his time rebuilding his army and concluding treaties against this new threat. Aware of the route the crusaders were taking, he carefully set up an ambush, and attacked Bohemond thinking he had trapped the entire crusade.
Only Bohemond's quick-thinking prevented a complete disaster. While his knights dismounted, forming a protective ring around the non-combatants, messengers were sent running to find Raymond's group. They only had a vague idea of where to look, but remarkably within five hours Bohemond's messengers had managed to find them. In the meantime, the Turks had made remarkably little headway. Despite vastly outnumbering their opponents, they were finding the armored knights difficult to break. Arslan's army was mostly lightly-armed archers, and aside from one ill-advised charge by a small group of crusaders, Bohemond's army had successfully resisted the temptation to break ranks that would have led to their destruction.
When Raymond and his troops arrived therefore, they took Arslan completely by surprise. His own trap had been reversed, and he was now in danger of being crushed between the two wings of the crusading army. In the chaos that followed, most of the Turks were killed and the survivors fled, leaving behind their baggage and what was left of the sultan's treasury.
The victory – which was credited to both Raymond and Bohemond – broke the spirits of the Seljuk Turks. Arslan concluded that the crusade was simply too strong to stop, so he stripped the countryside of supplies and tried his best to stay out of the way. After a few days of rest, the crusader army continued its march across the more desolate country that neared the Taurus Mountains to the southeast.
For the next four months the crusaders plodded across the bleak landscape, gradually realizing the folly of attempting to cross the baking Anatolian plains in the middle of summer. What little food there was had been taken by the Turks, and there was little or no water. Worst of all was the scorching heat, amplified by the armor that the crusaders were forced to wear in case of ambush. As the pack animals began to die, the goats, pigs and dogs accompanying the crusaders were pressed into service. Many knights were forced to walk to spare the horses, and some of the wounded stayed behind to recuperate.55
The only thing that kept morale up was the evidence of God's favor, made clear by their continued victories. As they reached the passes of the Taurus Mountains, a group of Turks not under the authority of Kilij Arslan, attempted to stop them from reaching the passes. Bohemond almost single-handedly defeated them, charging straight at the emir and engaging him in single combat. The Turks thought better of a pitched battle and fled, making no further serious attempt to stop the crusade.
The great beneficiary of this triumph was Bohemond who was slowly winning his war of prestige with Raymond. His exploits with the Turks had been capped that night with a fortuitous comet that many interpreted as a sign of Bohemond's rise. Sensing an opportunity to strike while the iron was hot, he sent his nephew Tancred with some other minor nobles away from the main army on a mission to liberate several neighboring cities. These he discretely turned over to Alexius as proof of his good faith, and a none-too-subtle reminder that he was still available for the post of Grand Domestic.
Inspired by this example, Godfrey's brother Baldwin also parted from the main group, ostensibly to obtain help from the neighboring Christian Armenians. Instead of gathering supplies, however, he took advantage of the political situation to carve out his own power base.
Baldwin and his men were warmly welcomed into Edessa, the capital of Greater Armenia, in what is present-day eastern Turkey. Its ruler, an elderly man named Toros, was a vassal of the surrounding Turks, but eager to break free. Since he didn't have a son, he offered to adopt Baldwin as his successor in exchange for the use of the western knights to prop up his flagging popularity. Baldwin eagerly accepted and a few weeks later the hapless Toros was overthrown in a palace coup. Baldwin founded an independent state that he named the County of Edessa, the first of four major Christian outposts in the Middle East that would collectively be known as the crusader states.
These maneuverings by Baldwin caught the attention of the entire crusade, but Bohemond's in particular. Baldwin himself wasn't especially popular – most looked down on him for breaking his crusading vow – but he had done exactly what the Norman intended to do. Bohemond's sights, however, were set firmly on Antioch.
Chapter 5: Antioch
“Bohemond and Tancred are mortals, like all the rest; but their God loves them greatly above all the others...”
– Gesta Francorum56
Antioch was a relic of the ancient world. Founded by one of Alexander the Great's generals in the fourth century B.C., it had been designed to be a city of kings. Laid out in an organized pattern between the great Orontes River and the soaring peaks of Mount Silpius, it had once been the nerve center of a great kingdom that stretched all the way to India. Situated at the nexus of spice and silk routes, it had become fantastically wealthy, glutted with the trade of east and west. “The scale and splendor of the wealth on display,” wrote the Greek historian Polybius in the second century B.C., “was enough to overwhelm the senses.57”
The absorption into the Roman world had, if anything, only increased its prestige. By the time of Augustus it was the third largest city in the empire. It was graced with the sacred Olympic games, patronized by the elite of Roman society, including both Julius and Augustus Caesar, and had monuments erected by everyone from Herod the Great to Hadrian.
To Christians, however, Antioch was particularly special. In some circles it was still known as the 'cradle of Christianity' because it had been there that followers of Christ were first called 'Christians'. Just as impressive was its native church, which had allegedly been founded by Saint Peter himself, and could therefore rival the claims of Rome. Together with Alexandria, Constantinople, Jerusalem, and Rome it was one of the five great Patriarchates of the Christian Church. If time had not been particularly kind to the city – the trade routes that had made it important had shifted to the south – it was still the most formidable stronghold on the road
to Jerusalem. It had resisted countless attacks over the centuries, and only treachery had finally enabled the Turks to conquer it thirteen years earlier in 1084.
The sheer size of it was enough to discourage even the most zealous crusader. When the Christian army arrived in the fall of 1097, many concluded at once that it was impregnable. The city – some three and a half square miles – was spread out across a valley floor, and was completely surrounded by the massive walls that the emperor Justinian had ordered to be built more than five hundred years before. These brick fortifications were studded with four hundred towers, offering defenders multiple angles to pour down fire on besiegers. Inside the circuit of the walls rose the cliffs of Mount Silpius, at whose thousand-foot summit squatted the armored citadel.
A quick reconnaissance confirmed the disheartening suspicion. Thanks to the mountainous terrain, an approach from the south, east, or west was extremely difficult, and the crusaders weren't nearly numerous enough to surround the entire walls. A full siege, in other words, was out of the question.
Raymond, who had heard a rumor that the garrison was absent, suggested that they immediately launch a full-scale assault, but Bohemond, not wanting his rival to be responsible for the victory, refused. The lesson of Nicaea hadn't been lost on the Norman. Once Alexius had taken possession of the city, there was little the other crusaders could do other than grumble. Had the emperor not done that, Nicaea would have been thoroughly looted and perhaps shared between the victorious forces. That couldn't be allowed to happen at Antioch. Bohemond intended to have the great city to himself and the only way to do that would be to have it surrender to him personally. He certainly couldn't permit a general attack – especially not one suggested by Raymond – before he had come up with a plan.
The immensity of the fortifications and the difficulty of the task at hand swung the argument in Bohemond's favor. The crusaders were exhausted from the march and suspected that such a rash assault would prove suicidal. Besides, Alexius had promised to reinforce them with his army. A delay would provide rest and allow the emperor to vastly increase their chances with his magnificent siege equipment. The attack was quickly voted down in favor of a siege, and Raymond was forced to swallow yet another humiliating blow to his prestige.
As it turned out, many had good cause to regret their decision. The siege was, not surprisingly, completely ineffective, and the opposition was determined. The Turkish governor, Yaghi-Siyan, had known for weeks that the crusade was on its way, and had done an excellent job in preparing his defenses. Since the city had only been in Turkish hands for little more than a decade, most of its population was Christian. Yaghi-Siyan obviously couldn't trust their loyalty, so his first move had been to throw the Patriarch into prison and expel most of the leading Christians from the city. He had then intimidated those who were left by desecrating the main churches and by stabling his horses in the Cathedral of St. Peter. The surrounding countryside was systematically stripped of food and most of its wells were poisoned. Finally, he had sent messengers to the neighboring emirs asking for help. The response was encouraging. While local forces stiffened his garrison, the Atabeg of Mosul, the most powerful figure of Upper Mesopotamia, promised his support, as did the sultans of Baghdad and Persia.
The crusaders, meanwhile, were foundering. The winter of late 1097 was more brutal than any in living memory, destroying whatever optimism had survived the hard march across the Anatolian plateau. In addition to freezing snowstorms, there were several earthquakes, and at night, the appearance of the aurora borealis seemed to signify some kind of divine wrath.
It was easy to believe that God had deserted the crusaders. The city had plenty of food and – thanks to the Orontes River that ran through its center – plenty of fresh water as well. The crusaders, on the other hand, were running out of both. What supplies had been left in the surrounding countryside were quickly exhausted from the strain of supporting an extra forty thousand men, forcing the crusaders to venture further and further from camp to forage. Even worse, their inability to surround Antioch completely meant that roving bands of defenders – who knew the countryside intimately – could slip out and ambush the Christians while they were looking for food.
Before long, it was unclear exactly which side was under siege. The crusading princes were more concerned with getting food than keeping up a rigorous blockade, and their situation was growing increasingly critical. Those knights who hadn't lost their horses in the grueling march across Anatolia were now forced to butcher the surviving animals for their meat. The general lack of firewood meant that even this meat was so undercooked as to be barely edible, but it was better than that which the rest of the army ate. The less fortunate knights and the infantry tried to catch rats, dogs, or the pack animals, seasoning them with grass or thistles. Some resorted to eating discarded hides or picked through manure to find undigested seeds.
By the spring, one in seven crusaders was dying of hunger, resulting in mass defections. As rumors of cannibalism began to spread, the crusading princes ordered all spare wood to be used to construct three huge siege towers, making the scanty meals even less palatable. Several desperate attacks were launched, but each failed miserably. As if this were not bad enough, word then reached the crusaders that an enormous Muslim relief army was on the way under the command of the powerful Kerbogah of Mosul.
There can hardly have been worse news. Of all the neighboring Islamic states, Mosul was the most powerful and had recently grown even stronger. In the first days of 1098, while the crusade had been pinned down at Antioch, the Fatimids of Egypt had successfully evicted the Turks from Jerusalem. The refugees had flooded into Mosul, swelling the atabeg's army. In addition to these troops, Kerbogah had forced the surrounding emirs to add their strength to his, creating the most formidable Muslim army north of Jerusalem.
His approach created panic in the crusader ranks, increasing the rate of desertions. Most shocking of all was the flight of Peter the Hermit who lost his nerve and slipped away in the middle of the night. He was easily caught by Bohemond's nephew Tancred, and returned to the camp in humiliation, begging to be forgiven. He carried enough clout with the common soldiers that they agreed, but the damage to morale had already been done.
Bohemond’s Scheme
The situation, however, was not quite as hopeless as the army believed. The incomplete blockade of Antioch that allowed raiding parties to slip out, also made it possible for Christian exiles from the city to keep in contact with their relatives inside. The situation in the city had been growing steadily worse. The siege had been dragging on for seven months and food in the city had begun to run out. The popularity of Yaghi-Siyan was at an all time low. Not only had he been forced to impose severe rationing, but there was also a suspicion that he had stockpiled his own provisions and wasn't abiding by his own terms. Bohemond, who had been waiting for just such an opening, managed to make contact with a man named Firouz who had been put in charge of the tower facing the Norman camp. Firouz was an Armenian who had converted to Islam to avoid persecution, but was on terrible terms with the ruling Turks. Not only had he recently been fined for hoarding grain, but his wife had also been taken advantage of by one of the Turkish guards. It didn't take long for Bohemond to convince the man to turn traitor.
Now that he had a way in – which he kept a strict secret – Bohemond just needed to choose his moment. First he needed to get rid of any serious rivals. Antioch had been in Roman hands for the better part of a thousand years, and the empire badly wanted it back. It had been the hope of reclaiming this city, in fact, which had been the main reason that Alexius had insisted on an oath of loyalty. There was still a small Byzantine contingent present under the command of the general Taticius that expected to be given the keys once the crusaders were inside. To clear Bohemond's path, they would have to be neutralized sooner rather than later.
This was done quickly enough. Taticius was summoned to Bohemond's tent and gravely informed that there was a plot to murder
him, which the Norman prince had regrettably been unable to stamp out. This may have been a lie, but it was easy to believe since by now most of the crusaders openly despised the Byzantines. Despite ignoring his advice to stick to the coasts, most of the westerners blamed the emperor for the difficult journey to Antioch, as well as his failure to adequately resupply them. As a result he had become a convenient scapegoat for every trial they faced.
Taticius was well aware of his own unpopularity, and allowed himself to be convinced by Bohemond's story. The very next day he abruptly left, announcing that he was returning to Constantinople to arrange for more supplies. Bohemond, who hadn't told anyone of their meeting, turned around and accused Taticius of cowardice, ridiculing him for losing his nerve and leaving the crusade to its fate. Whatever credibility the Byzantines had left with the rank and file quickly evaporated.
Bohemond's scheme was threatened when word arrived that Alexius had taken to the field with his army and was campaigning along the coast of present-day southwestern Turkey. The last thing Bohemond wanted was for the emperor to show up and rescue them. His heroic conquest of Antioch would be spoiled, and there was no way he could resist turning the city over if the emperor was there in person.
Bohemond had to act quickly. To increase his expected victory he began to play up the danger that they were all in. The rest of the army barely needed convincing. Kerbogah's troops were a week or two away at most, and there was no hope that Alexius could arrive in time. So many deserters fled as panic gripped the army that there were no longer any attempts to stop them. Even some of the minor nobility began to join them. In the early days of June, Stephen of Blois, the weak-willed son-in-law of William the Conqueror also fled, pleading illness.
As he was crossing back through the heart of Asia Minor, Stephen learned that the imperial army was in the vicinity and he immediately requested an audience. Alexius had left his capital that spring in an effort to assist the crusade, and had made his way slowly, opening roads and clearing the Turks out of the center of the Anatolian peninsula. His plan was to continue south to Antioch, shoring up imperial defenses along the way. Stephen, however, informed him that the crusaders had failed to take the city, and by now had surely been annihilated by the massive Islamic relief force.
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