Prince of Legend (16 page)

As they moved into the city no one was spared, with the Armenians suffering too, and both Raymond and Robert of Flanders were to the fore in the killing and encouragement to do so; man, woman or child, a goodly number of the inhabitants that had so far survived were dragged through their smashed doorways to be executed in the streets, the only delay in instant despatch – there was no offer to convert for the Muslims – the chance to tell where they had hidden whatever they still possessed.

Bohemund had moved into the city at dawn as well, but with more purpose, no less surprised than Raymond of Toulouse to find that his men had been beaten to their pillage by a mass of villeins, drunk with wine and bloodlust, now crowding the streets and squares, his Apulians reacting in a similar fashion to the knights of Provence, for they too felt cheated.

He made no effort to contain them, nor did he even delay to observe; following the guidance of Firuz, he and Tancred, surrounded by familia knights, were led to the Governor’s Palace where he found that the arrangements his interpreter had made overnight were in place.

Assembled were all those of wealth and position, the merchants that had in their trade made Ma’rrat an-Numan such a tempting target for a conqueror, along with their possessions. There too were their many wives and even more children, all under the protection of the governor’s personal retainers, those Turkish soldiers who had been the backbone of the defence.

‘Firuz, tell those men to throw down their weapons,’ Bohemund commanded, after the governor had executed a deep bow.

A sharp command from the bent-over official saw that obeyed and Firuz translated his next words, uttered while he stood fully upright once more and pointed to the chests of coin that lay before him, a sweep following to include the objects of value that lay behind them.

‘He offers this to you as yours by right of conquest.’

‘And what does he seek in return?’

‘That which you proposed I offer, My Lord, their lives and the right to depart Ma’arrat with what they can carry.’

About to agree, Bohemund was forced to react to the sudden commotion as a body of knights entered, with Raymond of Toulouse and Robert of Flanders at their head, both blood-coated magnates stopping dead in their forward movement wearing expressions of
surprise, or was it fury, to find the Count of Taranto present. That was before their eyes were drawn, as they must be, to the treasure that lay between Bohemund and the richly clad Turks, who had recoiled at the intrusion and were now gathered in a knot.

‘The city is surrendered,’ Bohemund said.

‘It is not,’ Raymond spat, ‘until it is ceded to me.’

‘It matters not, My Lord who has the glory, more who has the walls.’ He gestured for his Armenian to approach and spoke softly. ‘Firuz, tell the governor who it is that has just entered and that having surrendered to me he must also do so to the Count of Toulouse. Add that a very deep bow, even abasement, would not go amiss.’

There was a degree of terror in the governor’s eye as that was translated, but he was quick to throw himself onto the mosaic-tiled floor, an act that was copied by the whole knot of assembled males to his rear. From the floor came the words that asked for mercy, following which Bohemund explained what he had arranged.

‘Nothing of yours applies to me,’ Raymond barked.

‘It would have done so, Count Raymond, if you had climbed off your high horse and deigned to talk with me.’

Raymond’s response was to wave his bloodstained sword and order his men to seize both the assembled Turks and their possessions, an act which had Bohemund move forward to block their way, Tancred and the familia knights acting in unison to support him, all the Apulians having unsheathed weapons.

‘I have given certain guarantees.’

‘Which I had told you—’

‘You, My Lord, do not tell me anything.’

‘The lives of these infidels, as well as anything they possess, is forfeit.’

‘Their possessions, yes, their lives I have granted, as well as that which they can carry.’

Bohemund and Raymond were two sword blades apart now, and glaring at each other, which had Tancred wondering if that restraint which his uncle had stated the previous night was in danger of being broken. He was in a position where his pride would not let him withdraw but so was Raymond, and the younger man could only speculate what was going through the mind of Toulouse.

He had more men with him than his rival, but that would aid him little if it came to a fight, for he was well to the fore and might fall before his superior numbers could save him and such was the prowess of Bohemund that several of them might be despatched in the attempt, which as his familia knights they would be bound to do. Tancred thought he knew what Toulouse did not: his uncle would never strike the first blow, but it was the last one that counted and that would certainly be his.

Robert of Flanders pushed through to get between the two men. ‘Is there not enough here for all? No good will come of spilling blood in place of a share of the spoils.’

‘I demand their heads on my lances,’ Raymond spat, gesturing to the Turks, cowering in a group once more, ‘as recompense for the blood and treasure I have spent.’

‘Settle for their wealth, Raymond, for I have given them my word on their lives.’

Robert of Flanders put his mouth close to Raymond’s ear and spoke in such a low whisper that Bohemund could not hear what he said, words which did nothing to soften the look aimed at his Apulian rival. Bohemund held Raymond’s eye, but kept his countenance mild, until either from the words he was hearing or from the uselessness
of maintaining it Raymond turned his head slightly and broke the mutual stare.

‘You would fight a Christian to save a Turk?’ Raymond asked, when Flanders had ceased to whisper.

‘I would fight to defend my bounden word.’

That caused the other man to blink, for it flew directly in the face of his low opinion of Bohemund, who to his mind was careless with his vows. It was then obvious that Flanders had suggested a compromise that would save the face of both men. It was equally the case that Toulouse was unhappy in the making of it, for his voice was strained.

‘You may have their lives, but they leave this palace with nothing but that in which they need for modesty.’

The time taken by Bohemund to consider that did nothing to lighten the threatening atmosphere, but eventually he called forward Firuz, with instruction being given that the Turks should be stripped of their personal valuables, including their rich garments, while explaining the alternative, which was worse.

‘Tell him I will provide an escort to the city gates and beyond, to ensure they are safe.’ ‘

‘And what of these men we had to fight to get here, Count Bohemund?’ Raymond asked. ‘Do you intend to protect them too?’

‘They are not subject to any promise I made.’

‘Then,’ Raymond hissed, ‘it is fitting that they pay the price for their deeds.’

Receiving no reply, Raymond issued a sharp command and the men who had led the Muslim citizens of Ma’arrat an-Numan and shown them how to fight, now without arms to defend themselves, were slaughtered to the frantic screams of the women present.

M
a’arrat had suffered greatly but in truth the majority of the population survived, even some Muslims of both sexes, but more tellingly a high number of Armenians. For every body in the streets or blocking the doorway to a dwelling there were another three citizens still drawing breath, albeit they kept out of sight in their cellars and attics until the murderous instincts of their enemies had run their course and exhaustion added to full bellies brought an end to the killing.

Still, the place smelt of death and it was sound policy to begin to clear away the already rotting cadavers, as well as ensure that any buildings still smouldering were doused to prevent a spreading conflagration that could consume half the city. Corpses were piled on carts by the survivors of Ma’arrat and taken out of the city to be burnt in a huge human bonfire that sent pungent clouds of stinking black smoke into the air, the sticky ash falling to cover the clothing of those who had been engaged in the destruction.

The Crusaders were sated, both by blood and plunder, for they had been given a free hand to take for themselves that which they wished, while their lords and masters had a care to see that they got a share in the spoils that had been haggled over in the Governor’s Palace. Raymond had insisted that it was his labours, most notably in expending a great amount of silver on his siege tower, as well as the blood expended in its employment, that had led to the fall of Ma’arrat. That being so, he and his Provençals, as well as the men under Robert of Flanders, should have the lion’s share of the booty.

Bohemund was equally adamant that the Apulians, in drawing off men from the main assault, had contributed just as much to success and that both he and his lances deserved an equal share. Besides, it was he who had made the arrangements that had seen such treasure assembled in one place, for had it not been, given the mayhem of the sack of the city, with the pilgrims matching the soldiers in their avarice, the high nobles might have been lucky to see a single coin.

In the end, after much bluster and negotiation, the promises Bohemund had made to the governor and the wealthy citizens of Ma’arrat cost him dear: stripped as they were of everything they possessed, and in terror, these people still had their lives. Raymond made it obvious that unless he was satisfied in his demands they would suffer the same fate as that of the men who had been guarding them – those retainers who were now at best twitching carcasses laid out on a tiled floor swimming in bright red blood. It took a part payment of what Bohemund should have got for the Apulians to get them safely out of the city and on the road to Aleppo.

Such arrangements saw no more favour in the Provençal ranks
than it did with their liege lord: to their mind Bohemund’s men were latecomers who had done little to deserve even that which they had, which caused their leaders to withdraw their contingents to those areas of the city under their control, the southern towers for Bohemund and the rest of Ma’arrat for Toulouse and Flanders.

‘Flanders,’ Tancred announced from the doorway, receiving in reply a nod that the man should enter.

He stood aside to let Count Robert of that province enter the small chamber where his uncle had set up his quarters, the very one he had occupied on the previous night. It was one of eight held by the Apulians, fully a third of the towers of Ma’arrat an-Numan and, being the outer defences, of greater value than any city dwellings.

Standing to greet his visitor, Bohemund noticed that Robert’s eyes, before engaging his, took in at a glance the chests of treasure that lined the walls, making cramped what was already a room much lacking in space. A servant was sent to fetch refreshments – bread, grapes and dates as well – while the host indicated that his visitor should occupy the lid of one of those very chests.

‘Will you sit, My Lord?’

‘I have come as an emissary of Count Raymond.’

Robert had replied as if such a thing precluded comfort and he did not move to accept the offer, which led to a silence that he clearly found awkward. Before responding to what he held to be obvious – he had been waiting for some kind of emissary – Bohemund took a short time to reprise his relationship with this handsome man, nearer Tancred’s age than his own, well built and with a full head of brown hair, worn long, and with steady eyes of the same colour.

Brother-in-law to the Duke of Normandy, Robert had come on
the Crusade under his banner, which made him better disposed to the Norman Apulians than would be the case with the knights who served Toulouse. In common with most of his fellow magnates that relationship had fluctuated, sometimes good and on other occasions fraught with bile and recrimination – it very much depended on the circumstances of the crusading endeavour.

Like all the crusading princes Flanders had been wary when they first met, again in common with his noble peers, unwilling to quite believe and accept the reputation for successful soldiering that hung like a corona around the Count of Taranto. Yet as his brother-in-law mellowed towards Bohemund, so it seemed had Flanders until, if they were not quite friends, there was no open antagonism.

The nadir had come when foraging on this very plateau of Jabal as-Summaq in the spring, for it was there they, in joint command, had been obliged to abandon the mass of food they had gathered to take back to Antioch, as well as the bulk of the men who had done the collecting, caught unawares because no piquets had been set overnight to warn of any approaching threat, common practice when camped overnight in strange and enemy territory.

Had it been the responsibility of Robert or Bohemund to set those guards? That had never been established and neither had ever accepted that they were to blame, which had naturally led to their being cold in each other’s company. Yet for Bohemund there was much to admire about the man: he was a doughty fighter, the leader who had held off Kerbogha for days at the fort of La Mahomerie, which, given the odds, should not have survived one.

Added to that, in the Battle of Antioch, if there had been any residual resentment, it had never surfaced; he had stoutly obeyed the
man and later had shown him, in the glow of such a stunning victory, some regard that laid to rest the events in the disaster that befell them both on that foraging fiasco.

Where matters lay now was a mystery, but it was Robert who had whispered to Raymond to get Toulouse to modify his stance. At the moment his features were rigid, so when he did speak, Bohemund’s reply was gentle and delivered, if not with a smile, at least with a sympathetic look for a fellow noble on a thankless mission.

‘That I guessed, just as I surmised Count Raymond would not see it as fitting to come himself.’

The tone had a definite effect: Robert’s face softened and his response had something of a weary air. ‘I had to dissuade him from commanding that you attend upon him.’

‘Now that he occupies the Governor’s Palace our Count of Toulouse no doubt feels he has that right.’

‘You can guess, Count Bohemund, why I have come.’

‘As an emissary to demand that I surrender the towers I hold?’

‘Ma’arrat is Raymond’s by right.’

‘An opinion he firmly holds to, Count Robert, but one, I suspect, which you know is nonsense.’

‘So you reject his demand?’

‘As would you, My Lord, were you in the same position. There is, however, one act of his that will persuade me to accede. Let Raymond surrender to me the Bridge Gate and what he holds in Antioch and he can have these towers of Ma’arrat.’

‘Which is why you came to this place?’

‘Hardly a furtive act, indeed an obvious one, which you guessed when I first arrived, and if what I offer is accepted it still leaves Count Raymond the man best off.’

‘He will not agree.’

‘And I will not then surrender my towers, which means that as we jointly hold Antioch, so we jointly hold Ma’arrat an-Numan.’

The servant had entered with the sent-for refreshments, but Flanders declined to partake of them. ‘Count Raymond will be eager to hear your answer.’

‘Please, My Lord, he would have known my answer before he sent you on what is a fool’s errand and one that is an insult to your dignity.’

For the first time since arriving, the face of Robert of Flanders showed genuine anger. ‘Allow me to be the man to measure my dignity.’

Then he spun round and left, Tancred filling the doorway as he departed.

‘You heard?’

‘Everything, and I wonder at it,’ Tancred replied. ‘Giving him Ma’arrat does not entirely secure Antioch.’

‘Would you have me offer nothing?’

‘You could offer to join in the march on Jerusalem.’

‘Tancred, there is no such march.’

‘And nor will there be, Uncle, while you continue to dispute with Toulouse.’

The reply was scathing. ‘If you are looking for someone to soften their stance, try him, not me!’

‘Perhaps I will,’ Tancred replied, in an equally intemperate manner, before he too was gone.

Word soon spread of the impasse between the two princes and if the attitude to it was an increase in exasperation it was not for want
of land and cities, but for the fact that such a dispute caused even more delay in the Crusade to which all these people, knights,
milities
and pilgrims at Ma’arrat were committed. Men already disgruntled at the lack of progress became even more vocal, their ire not dented by the plunder they had gathered by their own hands or the largesse showered on them by their leaders.

If Bohemund’s standing sank in both camps – a goodly number of his Apulians were as angry as any – so did that of Raymond of Toulouse. Demands began to be heard that if he was not going to use the Holy Lance for the purpose to which it was best suited, namely as an icon to lead the faithful to Jerusalem, then he should hand it over to his troops and let them march on without the benefit of his presence.

The relic, from being a massive benefit to Raymond’s standing, was now working in the opposite direction: he was being seen as undeserving of possession. Acutely attuned to the mood of the faithful, Raymond sought a way to shift the blame squarely onto the Count of Taranto. He initiated a public assembly, using the pretext of an open-air Mass to celebrate the taking of the city.

This was a setting he knew Bohemund would not be able to avoid. He knew just as well as anyone how he was being perceived, even amongst his own followers. Held in the square before the Governor’s Palace, not long after first light, the press of bodies was so great that many were stuck in the adjoining streets and needed to be dealt with by suffragan divines and satellite altars. The sun shone bright in a cloudless sky and if it was cold on the cusp of December, it seemed that the heavens had decided to bless the celebration.

Kneeling at the front of the assembly, Raymond had with him the Holy Lance and he ensured it was highly visible. Not far off from that
knelt Bohemund, with Tancred and Flanders in between. That the two leaders did not talk to each other as they took their places was obvious enough to set up a murmur of disapproval, which rippled through the crowd.

That faded as the archdeacon saying Mass began his litany, aided by his clerical supporters as they blessed the body and blood of Christ, the paramount vessels for both brought before the relic in Raymond’s hand as if to underline not just its own importance but his.

No one but the archdeacon and his acolytes saw how Raymond reacted to the catcalls that surfaced then from hundreds of throats, few comprehensible. Yet a few transcended the mass of noise by being shouted, questioning why he had the Holy Lance and what he intended to do with it.

A glare from the archdeacon was enough to quell that disturbance, unbecoming at such a time and in such a ceremony, so the giving of Holy Communion went on throughout the square without further interruption, though given the numbers seeking to be shriven, the sun was well past its zenith before the Mass ended, at which point Raymond took up a position to address the crowd.

‘I call on the Count of Taranto,’ he shouted, holding up his lance, ‘in the presence of all and this lance which once pierced the body of Christ, to renounce what he holds here in Ma’arrat and hand it over to those who took it by their brave endeavours.’

The approval of that was far from universal; if the Provençals cheered, many of the Apulians did not, added to which if he had hoped to embarrass his rival it failed utterly as Bohemund gave to the assembly the same reply he had given to Robert of Flanders: Give me Antioch.

‘A plague on both, I say.’

Whoever shouted that, and it seemed to echo off the very sky, was, in such a dense crowd, too well hidden to be identified, but he was secure anyway, given the cry was taken up by many, soon to be joined by openly vocal demands to Raymond of what had hitherto been just murmuring. The demand that the lance be surrendered became a cacophony, and with the relic still in his hand, it was a chastened Count of Toulouse who retired to what was now his palace.

Bohemund was no less affected, receiving as much abuse as his rival, and he began to issue his orders to Tancred as soon as the square appeared clear. Try as he did, there was no missing the hateful glares thrown in his direction as the crowds dispersed; he was in the same steep tub of opinion as Toulouse, for if there had been any doubt about his intention to claim Antioch for himself, that had been laid to rest by his declaration.

‘We return to Antioch on the morrow.’

‘The towers?’ Tancred asked.

‘Will be garrisoned,’ his uncle replied, in what was near to a shout; he wanted them all to know.

The year had turned before the princes gathered at a town called Rugia, in the Ruj Valley south of Antioch, called there by a request from Raymond of Toulouse, who had spent the month of December at Ma’arrat an-Numan, despite the fact that Bohemund’s men still held a large section of the walls. The garrison could now worship, like the mass of pilgrims still there, in churches that had once been mosques, as they waited with open impatience for the march on Jerusalem to recommence.