Nearly every available horse was being used in foraging, yet good sense dictated that a small body of cavalry be kept by each of the city gates ready to sortie out in case of need – not to necessarily do battle but to put a check on any sudden appearance by any advance party of Turks.
That duly came to pass: a body of some two hundred mounted archers was spotted to the south of the city and their presence, if left unchallenged, might cut off the Crusaders from the fertile Ruj Valley, one place where if food was not plentiful – the locals had taken to hiding it in cellars and pits – such locations could at least be tortured out of them.
Thus the horns blew and everyone not occupied rushed to the walls to watch their champions ride out to drive off the infidel. In command on the St George’s Gate was Roger de Barneville, one of Bohemund’s most experienced captains, a man of high reputation and one the Apulian leaders trusted to show good sense. That seemed initially to be well placed, for his furious charge, along with fifteen other knights, had the more lightly armed Turks, in their hundreds, wheel away and retire in seeming panic.
De Barneville should have then called a halt; close to Antioch he could count on support, the further off he rode the less effective that could be until, at distance, it became impossible to provide succour. Still in plain but faint view from the battlements, the Turks, who had sensed this, wheeled to attack and on faster, smaller mounts they soon closed with their pursuit. Those watching saw their men enveloped by numbers that would have taken many more lances to contain.
That Roger and his men would fight valiantly was never in doubt; he was famous for his valour throughout the whole host, but the next sight was of those fifteen knights in full retreat, seeking sanctuary as a hail of arrows followed in their wake. Roger’s banner marked him out as the man in command and that attracted the most attention, which at least allowed half of his men to escape unscathed or with wounds so light as to not threaten their lives.
He was pierced several times, his horse too, and that slowed him enough to make the rest of the arrow flights, fired at very close quarters, deadly enough to negate the protection afforded by his chain mail. In slow and unfolding horror those watching saw him slide sideways on his saddle, his mount slowing, until both were overtaken. Knocked to the ground the still living but grievously wounded knight was hauled closer to the walls by the triumphant Turks who threw him to his knees and, to a wail from those watching, promptly cut off his head before sticking it on his own captured lance.
An even greater blow followed quickly: that Turkish party was naught but a precursor of a multitude yet to arrive, and as Godfrey de Bouillon had predicted and Bohemund had seconded, the party of men Vermandois had left to hold the Iron Bridge could not do so against such overwhelming numbers.
Their fate, to be massacred, was no secret: the local Armenians passed on to the Crusaders everything that happened in the countryside. Only the man in command had survived to occupy the oft-flooded dungeon, no doubt to be offered for a ransom that would not be forthcoming.
Yet having crossed the river Kerbogha halted and began to form up his camp.
‘Why does he not come on?’
Bohemund asked this as he stood looking out from one of the towers of the St Paul’s Gate, which faced the direction by which the Atabeg must march, really a question to himself rather than any of his nearby knights. He had expected to see Kerbogha’s banners closing in on the city walls, yet there was no sign of anything other than more light forces skirmishing ahead of the main body, many swirling around the La Mahomerie siege fort, though not actually attacking.
‘Perhaps he fears us,’ suggested Robert of Salerno with a braying laugh, making an inappropriate jest for what was a very serious situation.
He was a man much given to what he called his humour and others saw as mockery, which many put down to his bloodline. Robert was the grandson of Gisulf, the one-time prince of the wealthy city state of Salerno. He had been a tyrannical fool, a military incompetent and an endemic conspirator until Bohemund’s father, Robert de Hauteville, the first Duke of Apulia and the prince’s brother-in-law, had unceremoniously deposed him.
The possession of Salerno had devolved to the man who had a claim to be Robert’s heir, Roger Borsa, the present Duke of Apulia, a man with whom Bohemund was in permanent dispute, given he was his father’s firstborn and had only been deprived of his inheritance by a marital annulment made for the sole purpose of political gain, an act which had rendered both Bohemund and his sister Emma illegitimate.
If Bohemund hankered after what his father had bequeathed, Robert must wish for his part of that estate. At one time wary of the youngster and still vigilant given his love of risk, this scion of Salerno had become second only to Tancred in terms of trust. If he did harbour any resentment as to how his inheritance had been stolen from him by the de Hauteville family he kept it well hidden, never ever raising with Bohemund the actions of his sire.
‘I think it is more he has another plan, Robert, but still …’
That musing was left unfinished for it set off a train of contemplation in the Count of Taranto’s mind on which action could be based: the thought that before he attacked the main walls Kerbogha would employ access to the citadel to both strengthen the garrison as well as to use it as a sally port, if only to split the defence, the other obvious conclusion being little could be done to hinder that.
The Crusaders could not fight outside the walls on the eastern slopes of the mountains to destroy any men seeking to reinforce the citadel: the only gate from which to issue onto that ground in numbers, and one through which they would have to retire if faced with overwhelming force, was at the end of a narrow gorge which the Turks could take control of with ease. To sortie out was to risk being trapped, so it came down to the finding of a method of containment.
‘Robert, gather up any able-bodied citizens and take them up to your cousin outside the citadel. Tancred must build some kind of wall across the path down to the city and quickly, far enough off from the fortress to be safe from archery but close enough to stop anyone emerging from the gate having all the advantage, for they will be attacking downhill. A wall will break their charge.’
‘We could demolish the nearest mosque and use the stones from that.’
Sensing another jest Bohemund replied with good humour. ‘If you do, Robert, demolish a church as well, otherwise we will have every Muslim left inside Antioch seeking our downfall.’
‘They do that already.’
‘If they do in their hearts, let us not provide a means to excite their passions so they are tempted to riot.’
It took little time to find out the entire disposition and make-up of the Turkish host; many of the Armenians crowding into the city were only too willing to tell them. Thus the various tribes, faiths and sects were identified and added to that was a true figure of their number, which even if it turned out to be half of what had been rumoured was still in the order of fifty thousand and frightening, yet it was the mere fact of the combination that caused the greatest alarm.
It had always been known to the Crusaders that success depended on the factions of Islam maintaining their mutual distrust. The most powerful of the two main groups, and they truly loathed each other, were the Abbasids of Asia Minor and much of Persia, who had as their titular head the Sultan of Baghdad.
Opposition to them came from the Fatimids of Egypt, led from distant Cairo, yet even inside those polities rivalries were rife. The authority of the Abbasid Sultan of Baghdad appeared to be weak – few seemed to obey his directives or gather to fight for his cause – and that had done much to aid the penetration of the Crusade; how this Kerbogha had managed to get these fractious elements to put aside their differences mattered less than that they were now camped as a body not far from Antioch.
The one hope the besieged had, that such a massive host would fall apart or could not be supplied, was dashed early; Kerbogha was a good general who knew the value of keeping his army contented and fed. When it came to cohesion he was so feared for his cruelties throughout the land that dread provided glue where loyalty did not, just as such terror as he projected went far to explain how he had achieved his combination of force.
Added to that and for the same reason, food was being brought in from far and wide, much of it by those who had previously supplied the Crusade, given that to even show reluctance – and most would have preferred Kerbogha gone – was enough to bring on his murderous wrath.
The Atabeg set up his main camp a whole league away from the northern walls, this being a disposition all of the Crusade leaders struggled to comprehend when success surely depended on pressing the siege close. Not that such a distance allowed them much freedom of movement; to cross the short distance from the Bridge Gate to La Mahomerie siege fort still required careful observation, and that was ten times more hazardous when sending men to the port of St Simeon, where some ships, unaware of the changed circumstances in Antioch, continued to arrive.
Most of their cargoes ended up stacked on shore for the lack of the means to get them safely to the city. Before either excursion could be attempted it was necessary to see what forces of the enemy were close by enough to interfere, while those holding La Mahomerie were in no doubt that an attack would soon be launched in enough strength to take it from them and cut the route to the coast completely.
High up behind the city the men Tancred had set to constructing a wall toiled away in the tremendous daytime heat, the means to build supplied by an endless stream of reluctant and dragooned citizens, often bearing up the steep hill the stones of their own destroyed dwellings, churches and mosques having been left alone for fear of disturbance.
Running across the face of the hillside all the way to the point where it adjoined the outer curtain wall, there was no mortar to fix the pieces in place; it was drystone at best and flimsy because of that, so much so that, even with buttresses, it might well collapse from the weight of attackers pushing against it.
If days went by without activity, they did not pass without increasing anxiety. Despite strict control of the food supply and a diet ill-equipped to feed the fighting men – the pilgrims and citizens were left to fend for themselves – the storerooms were emptying at a rate that indicated they would struggle to hold out for weeks.
A month, without relief, was impossible, so much time was spent with an eye to the northern horizon for some sight of the armies of Byzantium, though messages getting through – smugglers by trade knew how to circumvent any restrictions by either cunning or bribery – brought no news of any such prospect, which left the besieged nothing to do but wait; all the dice were in the hands of the Turks.
The expected attack of La Mahomerie came first, a furious assault that those not in the siege fort could only watch helplessly from the battlements. The Turks surged around, probing hard and sometimes seeming about to overwhelm the defence. With a courage born of desperation the men led by Robert of Flanders somehow managed to drive them back till the pile of bodies on the perimeter rose to make it increasingly hard for those following to exchange blows and inflict injury.
If the first day was difficult it did not ease in those that followed. Overnight the Turks came to remove their dead and as soon as the light was strong enough the attack was renewed with the same ferocity. It was inevitable that Robert’s men, however stalwart they were, must suffer wounds and losses, added to which the sheer physical effort of maintaining the fight without any chance of being reinforced was debilitating in itself.
That he held out for four days was a feat of brilliance but unsupported it could not go on. As darkness fell on the fourth night, having once more been in combat all day, Robert dipped his banner three times, the signal that he was about to abandon the siege fort and retire through the Bridge Gate. A strong body of Provençal knights had to stand by to provide assistance and they waited until the Turks came for the bodies of their freshly fallen comrades, who by religious decree had to be buried within a day.
Emerging in near silence they slaughtered the gatherers, allowing Robert of Flanders to evacuate his remaining men – those who had died remained within, their souls commended to God – and to set the wooden structure alight, it going up like a torch given the inside of the walls had been soaked from barrels of oil kept for the purpose.
That it burnt bright enough to illuminate the slaughter so recently carried out was not a thing to bring cheer: if holding the siege fort had put a check on the enemy it was not much of one, and for all the Turkish losses they were in affordable numbers. Likewise, if the road to the coast was not actually cut to individuals, nothing more could be brought in from there, even by donkey.
With little left to distract him, Kerbogha finally began to act. He fed men up the eastern slopes of the mountains to crowd into the citadel, which naturally brought crusading reinforcements from Flanders and Normandy to the temporary wall. That it had taken him days to do so surprised Bohemund, but the possible answer to that curious behaviour came when he saw Shams ad-Daulah’s banner being lowered.
The flag of the Atabeg of Mosul soon replaced it. Clearly there had been negotiations: Kerbogha was not prepared to aid the man who held the citadel until he was sure that when Antioch fell his right to it would not be disputed.
‘It seems, Tancred, that I am not the only lord who is wishing for possession of the title of Prince of Antioch.’
Delivered with wry humour, it was a dig at his nephew, who had acclaimed him as that when they had only just breached the walls, it being the designation of the last satrap to hold it for Byzantium. The reply was swift and with no mirth in it at all, for at that very moment the gates of the citadel swung open and with wild cries, trumpets and thumping drums, a whole horde of fighters, Turks by their dress, began to emerge and deploy for an assault.
‘Then let us hope that those who wish to deny you that put as much effort into stopping Kerbogha.’
On command the knights present couched and lowered their lances to set up a frieze of points at the rim of the wall onto which the lead attackers must be impaled. Whatever words of faith had inspired them before the attack required more to sustain them and it was clear that the sight of those sharp metal lances brought a palpable amount of hesitation, yet the Turks were doughty fighters and had proved it many times and not just against this Crusade.
Over a century they had fought and repeatedly defeated Byzantium and the Arabs in their progress west to take and hold the lands they had conquered. So they came on, either through love of battle, a belief in Allah, fear of shame, perhaps Kerbogha, or the sheer pressure of those at their backs, swinging their swords to lop off the lance points while their fellows fired arrows over their heads to disrupt the defence.
Some attackers died from those falling short, others were impaled, this while Bohemund, Tancred, the two noble Roberts and their defenders held their shields over their heads as protection from the falling bolts, where that failed their chain mail deflecting arrows that were losing their velocity. Within a blink it was sword against sword, axe against spear and bloody combat to hold and deny the attackers the way down into the city.
Kerbogha had numbers in abundance; if his losses were high they were a price he was willing to pay for success, no doubt with promises of paradise for those who succumbed and gold for the survivors. That first charge was not repeated in weight, though the assault, if it ebbed and flowed, never let up throughout the whole of the day, the main action taking place across a small depression where the Turks sought to dislodge the defenders from the place where their two points of defence adjoined – the permanent city curtain wall and the drystone and makeshift one.
The women camp followers were as vital as the knights who held the line, fetching water to them in the short pauses between combat to ease throats that had become parched at the very prospect of a fight, the chanting priests encouraging them to pray to God for strength less so. Arms ached from the swinging of great broadswords and heavy axes, but it was tribute to the Norman way of training, applied in both the homeland and Apulia, that men sustained their ability to keep fighting, killing and maiming.
These were men who, when they were not fighting, practised daily to do so. Time spent in the sand-filled manège day after day and hour upon hour, in mock play of what they were now doing for a purpose, allowed them to keep going when lesser mortals would have succumbed from sheer exhaustion.
Bohemund’s standard flew above his head; along the line to one side fluttered the similar device of Tancred and beyond that those of Normandy and Flanders, while to the other flank, stiff on the breeze, flew the pennant of Robert of Salerno. If he was not a full-blooded Norman – neither was Tancred truly that with his Lombard father – he, like all the Italians who served as knights with the men from the far north, had been induced entirely into their ways.
Danger threatened when, as had been feared, the sheer pressure of Turkish bodies pressing against it led to the collapse of a section of the drystone wall. Bohemund, alerted to the crisis, immediately disengaged and called to the knights behind him who made up a reserve to join in response – if a man fell they were needed to move into and maintain the line. Together they headed towards the breach, which had become a melee of intermingled fighters: paramount was the need to restore the perimeter, and scant consideration had to be given to those engaged.
With his bulk and massive strength the Count of Taranto drove into the crowd, slashing right and left and never stopping to consider he might maim or kill his own, the men he had brought forming a wedge behind him, able by driving hard to push back the Turks and to kill so many that their bodies filled the breech in the wall. To get to the line of defenders obliged the attackers to now cross a barrier of blood, gore, severed limbs and twitching remains.
Whoever had command, perhaps Kerbogha himself, ordered the horns blown and the Turks retreated, to leave a line of Crusaders too weary to even think of pursuit, thus allowing the enemy to filter back through the inner gate untroubled. Much as he wanted to sink to his knees, as had many of his lances, Bohemund and his fellow magnates had to stay visible, had to raise their swords and emit the first sound of a hoarse cheer, that slowly taken up by the others, to what was far from an outright victory but was enough to tell their enemies that they were of good heart.
Yet they only had to look around to observe the number of their confrères who had either fallen or were groaning and grievously wounded to assess what had occurred: if they had driven off the Turks it had not been without cost.
‘If he attacks the walls at the same time as he sorties out from the citadel we will be on a set of sharp horns, my friends.’
No one at the meeting of the Council of Princes wanted to disagree with Godfrey de Bouillon for the very simple reason he was right. He and Toulouse had held the western walls overlooking the river, but in much diminished strength for such a task, the necessity of holding the higher ground being paramount. Yet if no one responded, all must be wondering at the lack of what they feared: Kerbogha had the strength to do as he wished as well as a clear view of the Crusaders’ lack of means. He could attack in two places at once.
Robert of Normandy, ‘Curthose’ by soubriquet because of a pair of short legs, spoke up next. ‘We cannot just let him act as he wishes.’
‘I cannot see how we can stop him.’
Hugh of Vermandois said that with an accompanying look that sought confirmation; what he got was indifference, his view on anything discounted almost by default.
‘We have all agreed we cannot fight outside the walls,’ Bishop Adémar reminded them, ‘but can we not raid a little to disrupt them?’
Bohemund was amused by that; early in the Crusade Adémar had been keen to emphasise that he was a mere cleric, not a military man in any sense, and that he was ever willing to bow to the superior knowledge of his knightly confrères. Yet he had bought a mailed hauberk in Constantinople and had been seen to read the historical Greek chronicles of Herodotus and Xenophon to glean insight into how battles were fought in Asia Minor.
Increasingly, at Nicaea, he had advanced his own theories until, after the city fell, a chance came for the Bishop to show his mettle. At the Battle of Dorylaeum he had led a party of knights with great gusto and had come to see himself after that, albeit with discretion when he spoke, as the tactical equal of any of these men who had led armies. It was a mark of the respect in which he was held that none now disputed it; even if he had got above himself Adémar had a clever mind and a clear sight of necessities.
‘Surely,’ the Bishop continued, ‘the way to counter Kerbogha at the citadel is to attack the men encamped to the rear of the mountains?’
‘Who are,’ Vermandois cried, seeking to latch on to the Bishop’s popularity, ‘more numerous than those actually in the citadel.’
Even stating the obvious got the Frenchman scant attention; at one time Vermandois had been advised by his brother’s constable, he an experienced and well-regarded soldier trusted by the King of France to keep the enthusiasms of his younger sibling in check. That poor fellow had been slain in a most shameful manner, having been sent to secretly negotiate with a group Turks seemingly willing to surrender one of the gates, in a meeting set up by Count Hugh, who declined to go himself. All Vermandois got back was the poor fellow’s severed head fired from a catapult.
Yet his outburst concentrated minds: the citadel might be formidable but it was not large. It could not possibly hold the number of men necessary for the assault Kerbogha had launched, indeed he had only used a proportion of his available strength so far, almost exclusively Turks, and to march such a host to and fro from the main camp each day was folly. On the rear slopes behind the citadel, visible from the towers held by the Crusaders, lay a satellite camp of some seeming permanence; the enemy were there to stay or at least until Antioch fell.
‘We could launch a night raid,’ Adémar suggested. ‘After all, we have a postern gate nearby that would serve very well by which to exit.’
‘Such an act is not without risk,’ Bohemund responded, as he contemplated the pros and cons.
Toulouse was quick to speak and sharply. ‘What is not?’
His reaction being brought on by rivalry – anything the Apulian said had to be countered by Provence – obliged Adémar to concur with both Toulouse and Bohemund, talking in a way that debarred interruption like Solomon applying his famous wisdom. If it irritated Bohemund it infuriated the man with whom the Bishop of Puy had set out on Crusade: Toulouse fairly spat at the cleric.
‘If the Apulians fear to set foot outside the walls the men of Provence do not!’
The response from Bohemund was delivered in an even tone and quietly, but lost nothing by that; he would hold to his vows if he could, but there arose times, and this was one of them, when it was required that anyone who insulted him did so at some peril.
‘Have a care, My Lord, about whom you choose to affront.’
‘No slur was intended,’ cried Adémar, a remark that flew in the face of the obvious. ‘But if we could send out a strong party, perhaps a hundred men, we might impose a check on the devil of Mosul.’
‘I will provide fifty,’ Vermandois said, glaring at Bohemund until that was returned in full measure, which had him look away; such a giant was not a man to challenge.
‘And I the rest,’ exclaimed Toulouse.
‘Good,’ Bohemund added, ‘then I need provide no one.’
On a night with little moon, with a heat haze to obscure what light came from the stars, getting out onto the escarpment and doing murder was not hard, the surprise being the way Kerbogha’s soldiers panicked and fled as soon as the Crusaders got amongst them. For every one that died a hundred ran away, using the down slope of the mountains to speed their departure and leaving their entire camp to be looted.
There was much to plunder: weapons, private possessions, especially those of the commanders, whose tents yielded objects of value. Most of all there was abundant food, some of it ready to eat, for hungry men too much of a temptation. It was hard to carry that off, but in their enthusiasm to pillage and gorge, the men in command, French and Provençal captains, did not think to set a piquet to ensure that those who had fled did not return.
Likewise it did not occur to them that the darkness, which had aided their enterprise, was just as likely to favour the enemy. Had they been given warning of the Turkish approach they might have safely departed, and heavily laden. As it was, the Turks arrived in great numbers and suddenly, so that the panic was reversed: now it was the Crusaders who had to flee, some foolishly seeking to carry with them what they had looted, which slowed their retreat.
Yet that was not the main source of the debacle that followed: the cause was the postern gate by which they had exited. It was narrow, as such entrances have to be, only of a width enough to allow one man passage through at a time, so that the first few were lucky, the rest less so and those at the rear doomed to be slaughtered. In the balance of those slain on both sides, made public at another council meeting, it was moot as to which host had suffered most.
The following morning, as if sending a hard message, the enemy again essayed out from the citadel to do battle and the same men who had fought the previous day were once more desperately engaged. Adémar, who had taken the reverse on his plan badly, was at the same time saying a special Mass for the souls of those who had been lost.