Prince of Legend (5 page)

‘It is madness to exit from any of the gates and in numbers,’ Tancred insisted when his uncle related the discussion he had just engaged in at the council. ‘Better to go out in small groups and spread terror.’

‘Do you intend to attempt that?’ Bohemund enquired, as he considered the notion.

‘If you will permit it, Uncle.’

‘I have noticed you often call me that when you want something.’

‘I mean it as a mark of respect,’ Tancred protested, until he realised Bohemund was smiling.

‘You second me in command of our Apulians, nephew, and I know you chafe at the restraint.’

‘I do not deny it. When I was sent away on my own and took Mamistra as my fief, I confess I took pleasure in not having anyone to question my decisions.’

That caused Bohemund’s face to cloud over; it was during that expedition, to clear the passes on the shortest route to Antioch, that, despite Tancred’s successes, his uncle had lost a hundred and fifty lances to a massacre in which Baldwin of Boulogne might be implicated. Yet he did not dwell on it for long.

Baldwin was in far-off Edessa and nothing could be done about him or his deeds now. Nor did he think on the reason such an expedition had been sent out: those passes known to now be free of defence would allow the Byzantines to use them as a fast route to join with the Crusade outside Antioch. That meant if Alexius was coming he should be here by now.

‘I would want you to feel free to act on your own.’ Seeing the doubt that induced, Bohemund added, ‘Have I not said many times that the day will come when you will need to seek your own future?’

Now it was Tancred’s turn to be amused and that came with a grin and a sweeping glance at the walls of Antioch. ‘A proposition hard to realise now.’

‘Act as you see fit, nephew, and that is a command.’

Watching him depart as he went to make his arrangements, Bohemund could allow himself to feel a sense of contentment; his sister’s boy had been with him for so many years he was more like a son than a nephew, though there was no thought to dispute the designation with Tancred’s father, a Lombard who had been a faithful servant and fighting knight to his own sire.

Such musings turned almost without effort to the image of Robert, the mighty Duke of Apulia, known throughout Christendom as the
Guiscard
,
which meant cunning to those who admired his guile and the very reverse, more than weasel-like, to the many who hated and feared him. Even the latter could not doubt his abilities, which were the stuff of legend and that only marginally outshone those of his elder siblings.

Robert de Hauteville came from a family of twelve brothers and two sisters, the offspring of his nephew’s namesake, who had, with two wives, sired a remarkable brood on what was a small demesne in the north-western part of Normandy known as the Contentin. Old Tancred, now long dead, had been a doughty soldier himself and, if far from wealthy, had raised his sons, all tall and as stoutly formed as their giant of a father, equipping them to be that too.

Tancred the Elder had hoped this would be in the service of the then ruler of Normandy, only to find that, having wed as his first bride the illegitimate daughter of Richard, the reigning Duke’s father, such a connection worked not for but against his heirs. Duke Robert the First, known as ‘the devil’ for the suspicion that he had murdered his brother, was a man who lacked a legitimate heir of his own.

His only son, William, at one time called the Bastard of Falaise, now known to Christendom as the Conqueror, had been sired out of wedlock, and his father had quite obviously feared a de Hauteville bloodline of puissant fighters and outstanding physical presence, who might claim precedence by a superior bloodline.

To constrain them as well as any perceived ambitions for the dukedom he had refused them service as close knights to his body and thus any hope of moving from relative poverty to a position of some wealth and possible influence.

With all chance of advancement gone – ducal disfavour made that
unattainable across the whole of Normandy – the two most senior of Tancred’s sons, William and Drogo, had set out for Italy to make their way as mercenaries with nothing but their swords, lances and their fighting prowess, following in the wake of many who had departed Normandy before them.

In the eldest son, William, the world had discovered not only a fighter who well deserved the soubriquet ‘Iron Arm’, but also a soldier with a quite remarkable tactical brain and no shortage of guile when it came to dealing with the one-time ruling Lombards of Apulia, his fellow Norman freebooters who fought their battles, as well as the Byzantines who now lorded it over them.

William had set the family on its way in Southern Italy, sidestepping his mercenary confrères as well as the slippery Lombards, trouncing the Byzantines in numerous battles, being followed in turn by Drogo and Humphrey, the brothers next in age. Humphrey had humbled the papacy as well as their Byzantines allies at the Battle of Civitate to consolidate and extend the family power in South Italy.

Succession by maturity had been set aside when Humphrey died and Bohemund’s father had leapt over, by acclamation, two of the other brothers to assume the leadership of the family and the forces they had created. In a life of constant warfare, devious manoeuvring and greed for possessions the
Guiscard
had made Apulia secure by his conquest of the coastal cities of Brindisi, Bari and Otranto.

Far from content and aided by the youngest of his brothers, Roger, he next conquered Calabria, then led an expedition across the Straits of Messina to take control of Sicily from the Saracens. Robert de Hauteville, like William Iron Arm, had risen from penury to become,
by papal investiture, the Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily as well as the most famous soldier in Christendom.

No such ruminations were possible for Bohemund without a reflection on how he had been robbed of his inheritance. For reasons of political necessity, though it was disguised as being required by the sin of consanguinity, Robert had, with the connivance of a well-bribed pope, put aside his first wife to marry Sichelgaita, a Lombard princess and sister of Prince Gisulf of Salerno. She had produced two sons as well as several daughters, the eldest of whom had, through the manoeuvring of his formidable mother, inherited all the ducal titles.

Bohemund immediately went to war with his half-brother Roger, known as
Borsa
, and he would have taken what he saw to be rightfully his if
Borsa’
s namesake uncle, who held the title of Great Count of Sicily and was every bit a match as a soldier for any of his siblings, had not stepped in to prevent it. If Roger of Sicily had also ensured
Borsa
likewise never enjoyed the whip hand it was small compensation; the Great Count held them in balance and Bohemund suspected he did so, not as he claimed for any vow he had made to his elder brother, but for some long-term aim of his own.

Many, Bohemund knew, suspected he had come on Crusade to repair that paternal fault, to gain in Asia Minor what he had been denied in Italy, and if pushed, he would have been hard-pressed to tell if that were true or false. Certainly he chafed to be denied his titles but more he had come here to get away from the endless need to fight with and sometimes serve under his half-sibling, this to preserve intact the whole inheritance –
Borsa
was a weak creature, a poor general and a man who placed more credence in priests than common sense, which made just being in his presence a trial.

Perhaps a more telling truth was that Bohemund was like most of his race – his mother had been a full-blood Norman – a man who lived to fight and conquer, made restless by the lack of it. From that he might accrue the rewards that his bloodline indicated to him he deserved, but what would come of this adventure, as he had told Tancred many times, he did not know, for the future was to him, as to all men, a mystery.

Yet chance was ever on the wing and it might be that here in Syria he might find that which he sought, an undisputed destiny and a fame all of his own to match or even surpass his famous sire.

T
he men Tancred led, a dozen in number, let themselves down rope ladders in Stygian darkness onto the steep part of the slopes of Mount Staurin, those being hauled out of sight as soon as they were on the ground. Lightly clad, eschewing mail, they moved with slow deliberation downhill towards the fires of the forward Turkish camp, re-established after Godfrey of Bouillon’s debacle.

There was no attempt to kill on the scale the Lotharingians had attempted; the aim was to spread alarm. So the party stayed well clear of the men on guard and out of the arc of those flickering flames that stood central to the camp, choosing a tent where the sounds of deep slumber were obvious through the canvas.

The killing was silent, even to the point of the removal of the heads and, the deed done, they retired and called for their ladders to be relowered so they could re-enter the city. The whole affair had not lasted less than three glasses of sand and the half a dozen Turkish heads
sat on Bohemund’s table were a welcome sight. Tancred’s enthusiasm would have been infectious to a less experienced soldier; for all that, his uncle made his pleasure more obvious than any reservations.

‘This way we spread terror. Let our enemies wake up each morning, whatever camp they occupy, to find six or more of their number decapitated and with no knowledge of how it had occurred. If we cannot fight them in open battle let us make slumber a risk.’

‘You have done well, Tancred, but have a care if you attempt to repeat this. What works once will not always allow for a second attempt.’

‘I am not fool enough to strike twice in the same place, Uncle.’

‘Wise,’ Bohemund responded, though he looked down to avoid Tancred’s eye. How could he say to his young and passionate nephew that at this rate of attrition he would still be killing Turks at the coming of the second millennium? ‘But next time leave the heads and bring back their victuals, which is a more pressing need.’

There was food, if not in abundance, but it was in the hands of those who wished to profit from ownership, and not just smugglers. The citizens of Antioch, or at least a good body of them, were as shrewd and rapacious as folk anywhere, sharpened by having already gone through one siege.

They knew how to hide what they had so it could not be stolen or sequestered by whoever held the city at a time of siege – livestock was kept in straw-lined cellars to avoid their bleating and crowing being overheard, wheat was stored in the rafters until desperation made the prices that could be extracted from the tired and famished fighting men rise to the right level.

Any Crusader who had managed to come upon and keep hold of some coin in the march from Nicaea was obliged to part with it now
and for very little in return. Knights started by drinking the blood of their horses for sustenance, then when they became too weak to be of use in battle they killed them and consumed their carcasses, ignoring the effect on the loss of the ability to fight.

A dead oxen caused high excitement as the owner sought to sell it bit by bit, while the sight of a scrawny and ill-fed chicken being auctioned was enough to start a near riot so that the successful bidder was obliged to make a fast escape to keep what he had bought. Every member of the Council of Princes ate better, for they had the funds to do so, but they were also distributing a dole to their men, small payments that should have been enough to buy food, yet seemed to purchase less and less each day.

Toulouse was the wealthiest of the magnates, for fertile Provence, a rich region even before the Romans arrived, had for years made his coffers groan with gold and the silver coins still known by the Roman name of
solidi
.

If he used it to provide sustenance to his Provençal lances, he was also employing it to suborn men from the other contingents – Franks, Apulians, Normans and Lotharingians – urging them to desert to his banner so as to strengthen his hand in the council, sure his increasing numbers would eventually hold sway on any decisions made.

Bohemund worked hard to hold his men to him; he had managed to get some of his revenues from Apulia shipped over to St Simeon to bolster the fortune in treasure – literally a room full of gold, silver and jewels – he had received from the Emperor Alexius, his one-time enemy, in a bid to buy his loyalty.

Likewise every other prince had disbursed what Byzantine largesse they had been gifted and what they had in coin. Yet even with such subventions, hunger could not be staved off, any more than could
Kerbogha be turned into a chimera, and if the acts of Toulouse caused resentment nought could be done to counter that either.

The pilgrims, many of whom had no money at all and received none from on high, were chewing old leather belts and making soup from grass and weeds – some were said to be eating their shoes – and being deeply devout and close to starvation, visions were becoming even more rife. Every act and every untoward noise was a portent, positive or the reverse, prophecies laden with either glorious deliverance and entry into heaven as martyrs or to a collective descent into flaming hell, there to burn for their transgressions, their pride and their heresies.

Many came to believe there was no salvation at all without divine intervention and that within days. Less superstitious minds still hoped for Byzantine aid, though with a decreasing level of expectation, for no news came of any approaching host.

There was nothing grand about any of the knights, ten in number, who stepped ashore at Alexandretta; their clothes were ragged and every one had days of facial growth, untidy and salt-streaked, evidence that the means to shave had not been available for the several days which must have been spent at sea.

That was the impression created when they were still afloat and it was not improved on closer inspection, for there were traces of dried blood, mixed with filth, on every one of their garments and not a few were carrying wounds, added to which they looked
half-starved
, standing in sharp contrast to the man who greeted them as they stepped onto the jetty.

‘Grandmesnil, is it you? And do I see Hugh of Liverot under all that hair? Bernard of Maine?’

Count Stephen of Blois was not only dressed in fine and clean garments, both his smooth face and ample body showed that no shortage of food had attended him for some time; indeed he was sleek to the point of causing resentment to men who, racked with hunger, had been obliged to scrape down the walls of Antioch in the dead of a cloudy and moonless night.

That achieved they had then to creep, many times on their belly, through lines of Turks to get to the rear of their camp before they could stand upright and try for a swifter progress. Blois rattled off several more names in greeting, for these were well-known captains he was addressing.

‘It is us as named, My Lord,’ William croaked, speaking for all.

‘Come from Antioch?’

‘Where else?’

The blood seemed to drain from the well-fed face. ‘Has it fallen to the Turk?’

‘No.’

William made that reply before he realised that an opportunity had been missed, for if it had not fallen what was he doing here? Blois clearly knew that it had been taken by the Crusade, just as he seemed well aware that it was now besieged and that would imply he was also aware of by whom and in what strength.

He recalled that Count Stephen had abandoned the siege while the army of the Crusade was still outside the walls, had fled the hunger, indeed near famine, of the winter and taken his three hundred lances with him. When it came to desertion the escaped knights could hold their heads up in the presence of this particular magnate. Added to that, William had the wit to employ an immediate excuse.

‘The situation is grave …’

‘It was far from ever good, William,’ Stephen interrupted, his voice sombre as he continued, having about it a speed of expression that robbed the words that followed of any verisimilitude. ‘I had intended to rejoin you all not long past, but then that devil Kerbogha got across my route to Antioch. I have spent much time trying to think of a way to get through his host without I lose every one of my men and my own life with it.’

About to tell a falsehood himself, it seemed clear to Grandmesnil that Blois was engaged in just that; he had never had any intention of a return to the siege of Antioch and it was apparent not just in the haste of his justification, it was also in the way he would not look the man he was addressing in the eye, instead half turning, as if by glancing south for a second he could underline the risks he had declined to run.

Grandmesnil put as much force as he could into his reply. ‘I have come at the request of your fellow lords to seek out the Emperor Alexius and his army so that they may know how our confrères are faring and ask that he hurries to their assistance.’

If Blois had any inclination to believe that, the reaction of the rest of the unkempt knights would have disabused him; long stubble and unkempt hair did nothing to obscure the look of surprise in their salt-crusted eyes, albeit that disappeared almost as quickly as it had materialised. Such a fleeting set of expressions cheered the Count of Blois; to be lied to is acceptable when one is also engaged in a high degree of dissimulation.

‘We cannot stand here when you are clearly in need of sustenance.’ A twitching nose also indicated that some clean water to wash would not go amiss. ‘Come, I will have a feast prepared and we shall search you out some decent garments. Then, with wine in hand and food in your belly, you can tell me of your adventures.’

This Grandmesnil was only too happy to relate, though first he had to describe the dire state of both the defences and the defenders of Antioch. Much was made of the daring of he and his companions, as well as the sterling aid they received in their flight from those hopefuls they left behind, added to what it took to avoid detection close to the walls. First had been the sheer difficulty of escape, for they needed to lower not just themselves but flat boards on which to float across the Orontes and they were soaked by the time they made the opposite bank. But soon he was on to their subsequent travails.

Their mistake had been to stick to the St Simeon road once they had got clear of the main Turkish lines, for the enemy had posted a piquet on that, probably more to stop and rob smugglers than to catch fleeing Latins; after all, the fewer who remained the better. The men manning the post, alerted by such a large number of knights, possibly saw not flight, which they might have ignored, but an attack.

They ignited a pre-prepared alarm beacon and set up enough of a hue before they expired on Crusader swords to set in chain a strong pursuit, luckily on foot and not mounted, otherwise Grandmesnil and his hard-running compatriots would never have got to St Simeon ahead of them.

There was no attempt to halt that pursuit, no attempt to stand and fight; their enemies were too numerous. As soon as they made the berthing jetty their only concern was to choose the best ship, one that was at single anchor, waiting for dawn to set sail. An axe saw to the anchor cable but even that was not a solution.

The Turks took to boats to seek to stop them, leading to a long and bloody fight over the bulwarks and on the ship’s deck as it drifted out to sea, a contest that accounted for many of the wounds they now carried. In all, eight of their number had either been killed or had
injuries so severe that they succumbed over the following days to be, like those already expired, buried at sea.

It was natural that the talk turned back to the situation at Antioch just as it was natural that William of Grandmesnil, left by his fellow escapees as their spokesman – he was, after all, sat on the right hand of the Count of Blois, who had his comely looking Armenian mistress on his left – should paint a picture of the situation being close to hopeless, albeit that could change with the arrival of the Emperor.

There was no attempt to in any way embarrass his host, to hint that he might have seen it as his duty to come to their aid, though Blois continued to insist with every opportunity that was presented to him that he should try; both men were happy in their falsehoods.

‘The Emperor must be told what the true situation is,’ the Count insisted.

‘Which we could do if we had any notion of where he is, My Lord.’

‘We owe it to our fellows to find him, do we not?’

There was both sense and comfort in that, which led to ready agreement; to head north and find the Byzantine army was to be active without much in the way of risk. Stephen was quick to procure a ship by which the two, and they alone, should proceed by sea, heading for the last known place where imperial troops had been reported to be active under John Comnenus, the Emperor’s nephew, who commanded the imperial fleet.

A landing at Tarsus brought more solid information: Alexius himself was in command and camped to the north at Philomelium and to there they proceeded as fast as they could on horseback. Sighting the huge tented encampment, thousands of men spread over the fertile plain and having identified themselves to the guards, they were ushered into the splendid pavilion of the man who was addressed in
the style, by those who served him, as the reigning Roman Emperor.

To a pair who had been riding for most of the day and were subsequently coated with dust, the magnificence of the imperial accommodation was doubly impressive: Alexius even had along a dais on which he could place a throne-like chair so as to be above anyone whom he addressed. As in his palace, high officials, courtiers, as well as his huge axe-wielding Varangian guards surrounded the Emperor, while the decor matched anything to be found in a more solid structure.

Thick carpets lay one over the other on the ground, while military standards lined the silken sides. The light from the numerous oil lamps, as well as the sun, which streamed through the canvas roof, sent beams of glitter flashing off the kind of gold and silver objects with which Imperial Constantinople surrounded itself; it was display, of course, and impressive enough to cow anyone who came upon it as a friend. More importantly it would astound the representative of an enemy come to parley.