Raymond was slow to start, letting dawn, the normal hour for an assault, pass by before he gave the order to form up, that extended by several more turns of sand passing through the narrow neck of glass. It was near to noontime before the first horn blew and the tower began to move, a red-backed flag with its golden Occitan cross fluttering in the stiff morning breeze. Not that it was very obvious the sun was at its zenith, hidden as it was in a grey and cloudy sky that looked to threaten rain.
Many of the stones that now filled that dry moat had come from the roadway that led to the western curtain wall – it would be madness to try to take one of the many towers, naturally higher in construction, so the siege tower was rolled slowly forward with a relative ease that decreased the closer it came to the masonry. There the pathway narrowed considerably: in the killing zone it had been harder to make it so wide and so smooth and the continued forward motion on less than perfect ground now made the structure rock to and fro and from side to side in what looked, from a distance, to be an alarming degree.
The men who suffered most from the movement were the archers on the very top level, there to engage in an exchange with their counterparts of the walls, who started firing flaming bolts as soon as it came in extreme range, aimed at setting the less solid parts of the tower alight, especially the brushwood screens that lined each level. With Raymond’s bowman was a gigantic huntsman blowing endless loud calls on his horn to encourage his confrères and, he hoped, frighten the defence.
Below the archers and behind a solid screen were gathered the small body of knights who would undertake the initial assault, the screen when dropped acting as a platform on which they could begin a fight designed to push the defenders back onto their own parapet. With the heavily armed knights stood a quartet of lightweight milities whose task was to cast grappling irons upon which they would then haul in an effort to ease the task of the whole mass pushing below.
Originally, at ground level and in front of the tower, the milities and camp followers had been pulling on ropes, but that was abandoned as soon as the arrows began to fly. Now they were behind and pushing hard, partly screened from harm by the structure, lined up on either side of the supporting knights, ready to aid their confrères by rushing up the internal ladders to join as soon as the fighting began. That had to wait till the tower was stationary: too many bodies on the floors made it impossible to move.
Given they were pushing and the ground was less even, progress slowed until even a snail would have outrun its progress, its four great wheels creaking as it edged forward, the weight of the tower enough on its own to send out wisps of smoke from the greased axels. Waiting along the wall was a frisson of pikes, as well as swordsmen ready to cut those grappling-iron ropes, while as soon as they came within range javelins were cast in a high arc in an attempt to draw first blood by looping over the screen.
There had been yelling from both sides, to go with that relentless horn blowing, since the tower first moved but the closer it got the louder such shouting became as men sought to bolster their courage by exhortation, until the air was filled with the combination, the cursing of both faiths now loud enough to fill the air. If Raymond could be blinded by his pride he was no tyro as a general: an attack with ladders was launched against the northern wall to split the defence. In plain sight the archers atop the tower saw some of the defenders rush off to contain that assault and they were not alone.
Bohemund was watching events with as keen an eye as his rival, just as earlier he had listened to his Armenian interpreter, Firuz, who had been sent to sniff out Raymond’s tactics and came to report the surreptitious preparations for the supplementary attack, making an assessment of when to launch his own attempt against the southern ramparts, which if they were not unguarded should have few men in place to repulse him.
‘It will not remain thus,’ were the words he had employed when he outlined his thinking to his senior captains, as dawn rose prior to the opening of the battle. ‘Raymond’s northern attack will draw off strength from his main effort but they will soon see that for what it is, a diversion.’
Canny as ever, Bohemund had held back this conference till it could be delayed no longer, for his men needed time to get into position. Where he would launch his attack – on the east wall or to the south – was a secret he had held close, for the very simple reason that if no one knew it could not be betrayed either by a loose tongue or a needy purse. Also his delay in deploying was designed to make Raymond think he might stand aside to await the outcome of the Provençal effort, only moving when he was sure of its success.
‘If our task is to get onto the southern curtain wall, there is to be no attempt to get into the city from there.’ That got many a raised eyebrow and quite a few low-voiced comments. ‘Once we have cleared the parapet, seek out a tower and take it. Once in our possession it is to be held regardless of who seeks to dislodge us.’
If the first remark had set minds working, those closing words had an even greater effect: that the Muslims of Ma’arrat would seek to dislodge them could be taken as a fact; ‘regardless of who’ could only mean Raymond’s men, which was quickly acknowledged by their commander, but with a sharp caveat.
‘Kill as many infidels as you like, but spill a drop of Christian blood and you will answer to me. The task is to take and hold the towers so that even if the Count of Toulouse takes the city he does not hold it without our cooperation.’
Tancred spoke up and it was clear by his tone of voice he was far from happy. ‘This is a repeat of Antioch.’
‘No, nephew, it is a reverse of Antioch.’ Aware of a shifting of feet among his other captains Bohemund was quick to add, ‘There are those of you who are bent on Jerusalem, and that is so of many of the men you lead. I say here and swear that nothing I will do will ever keep you from that goal.’
There was temptation to reprise all the things he had said to Tancred: Antioch must be held if the Crusade was to have any prospect of success and it had to be in the hands of a man who could repulse any attempt by the Turks to retake it, while no faith could be placed in Alexius Comnenus and Byzantium to do that for them.
That he, Bohemund, was set upon holding the city even against the Emperor, and if any man saw that as covetousness, it was not something for which he was prepared to seek approval, for if he could gain remission for past sins in the Holy City he would gain little else. Instead, the thought of Alexius – the reasons he had lost to him in Thessaly and Macedonia all those years past – gave him a better way to appeal to these men.
‘Antioch is the most vital trading city in Syria, if not the richest between Constantinople and Cairo, so no words of mine are needed to tell any one of you what opportunities exist for a man bent on gaining prosperity in my service. Those of faith who serve with me but wish to fulfil their vow must do so and go on to Jerusalem. But know this, once that task is completed, they will be welcomed back to my banner should they choose to return. Any man who wishes to stay with me in Antioch I will ask to aid me in holding the city and the province in my name.’
The more pious could not look at Bohemund, for he had stated his position with clarity for the first time, not that it had been obscure to anyone with an ounce of sense. Others did hold his eye and it was clear why: Antioch and Northern Syria, which their liege lord now controlled, would require to be administered by the senior men he led.
Castles would have to be built and garrisoned, which meant that the lands around them would be handed out to those who took command of the region, kept it at peace and held their fiefs against invaders. From that came the things of which any landless knight dreamt: titles and wealth.
If it was less than benevolent, Bohemund was challenging their faith, pitting it against their sense of personal yearning. The men who went on to Jerusalem might indeed fulfil their vow – they might also die in the attempt – but if they succeeded in taking the Holy City and survived, by the time they came back to Antioch all the best land would have been parcelled out to those who had stayed. Loyalty to Bohemund would stand higher in their leader’s estimation than the depth of their dedication to Christ.
‘This day, we have a battle to fight that will decide more than what happens here at Ma’arrat an-Numan. Just as I respect the faith of the true Crusader, I will also not press any of you to participate who think that my actions are blameworthy. But that is a decision you must make right now!’
The last expression being made with a bark had all pulling themselves upright; to decline now would be seen as a lack of courage and that they would never show.
The strip of daylight between the tower and the walls of Ma’arrat had so narrowed as to almost disappear yet that last tiny gap was proving the hardest to overcome. For all their efforts the stone crossing they had built over that dry moat had none of the consistency of the impacted ground they had earlier traversed.
The tower first swayed forward, only to lean back again as it was pushed onto another uneven patch, causing the screen which had protected the knights to first drop slightly then be hauled back up again; without it and not engaged in actual combat they were vulnerable in a situation where long pikes could outdistance their lances, while arrows and javelins launched at such a short range might even penetrate their chain mail.
Bohemund had been determined not to begin his own assault until the Provençals were fully engaged, thus pinning the defenders, but matters were not progressing as he had anticipated; it was all taking too long. Too much time had been wasted before the thing first moved and he could feel the stirrings of frustration not only at its slow progress but the way it was compressing the amount of daylight in which he would have to fight.
Behind him stood his warriors and they would be feeling the same impatience, mail-clad knights ranged in an extended line alongside the climbing frames, those lying on the ground where they had been placed overnight. Constructed in numbers they would allow his men to assault an entire section of the southern wall between two towers, an effort harder to defend against than a series of single-person ladders. They also served to send a message that this was no probing attack but one designed to take the city.
There was also in his calculation the notion that even if the danger of his attack were seen as soon as those frames became visible, there would be a time delay between the realisation of the threat and the moves needed to counter it by a defence already heavily engaged in two places. That it was not working as he had hoped required that he change: for the whole assault to succeed and in the available time he would need to draw off some of those opposing Raymond.
‘Blow the horns,’ he commanded, moving forward himself under his red banner so that all along the line his men could see it was time to move.
Up from the covering brushwood came the frames; as soon as they were in view they caused a ripple of obvious alarm on the battlements, as the nature of what they portended was assessed. It should have been a time to break into a run, to get to the base of the walls at speed, regardless of the ditch, but those frames, as they had to be, were made of heavy timber and green stuff with it, full of sap and ten times the weight of seasoned wood.
Thus the Apulians shuffled forward, dragging the frames behind them, seeking with their free hand to place their shields in the best place to ward off danger. If they bellowed their bloody intentions, their count in his dignity could do no more than threaten those men on the walls with the fierce nature of his appearance – his massive height added to the mighty axe he carried, the white surcoat he wore, still with its red Crusader cross – for the threat of Christian retribution to a Muslim was more forbidding than any de Hauteville family device.
As he came closer the men on the walls might see the look in his eyes, steady blue orbs on either side of the drooping nose guard of a conical Norman helmet. If they did it should chill their blood, for the promise of the gaze was one of death and mutilation. Naturally because of his stature and the position of leadership he adopted Bohemund became the prime target that had to be stopped, so that every projectile cast or fired from the walls came in his direction.
To protect him, and this was their duty, his familia knights stepped up to surround their lord and used their shields to create an impenetrable barrier off which arrows and javelins bounced, that raised to cover heads the closer they came to the massive rectangular stones, jointed with mortar, that made up the walls. All along the line his men were dropping into the dry moat, before setting down their burdens, a foot set on the base to secure them, while those who came behind rushed to raise them hand over hand until the tops rested on the battlements.
The enemy sought to immediately push the frames away, only to find the very weight that had slowed the Apulians made it impossible for the defenders to budge them and that was rendered even more difficult as soon at the attackers began their slow climb. What came down on them to slow their progress was dangerous – boiling oil, rocks, javelins and heavier spears – but it was widespread and not sufficient in content or concentrated enough to impose a complete check.
That came from the tenacity of the defenders, who, when engaged fought with a fury that surpassed anything the Crusaders had encountered previously and their efforts increased when reinforcements arrived from the western wall to stop this fresh assault. Bohemund, as was required by any warrior chieftain, was well to the fore, his axe swings deadly to anyone caught in their arc, for each blow was not of a weight to merely wound, aware that even with this form of assault only so many of his fighters could engage at any one time.
The frames were full of knights waiting to get into the action, which could only come about if one of their number succumbed to their front, albeit if that person fell with a mortal wound his falling body was as likely to take with him that of his waiting replacement as slip on by. Try as they did, the Apulians could not breast the battlements in numbers enough to gain a foothold.
For all their prowess in battle the Normans began to show signs of weariness. The arms ached, the throats were too dry to properly breathe, the sweat from exertion filled the eyes to make misty that at which they were aiming, and all was being undertaken with a precarious balance. The saving grace was, apart from the latter, the defence suffered likewise, so that it became possible for exhausted fighters to be replaced on both sides in a battle that was making no progress for either; the Turks could not drive back the Crusaders and they could not get onto the parapet where their greater height, weight and reach could be made to count.
It was in a short period of rest that Bohemund was able to observe that Raymond was faring no better than he, and if his admiration for the tenacity of the Crusaders was great, be they Apulians or Provençals, he had nobility enough to extend that to a race he had respected ever since he first fought them, for the Turks were every bit as formidable as any Latin and just as inspired by their faith as the most devout Christian.
If he loved battle Bohemund desired success more, so instead of rejoining the fight he took to trying to direct the efforts of his men from below, looking for areas where resistance seemed to be weakening or a gap began to appear and directing them to that spot. Time might have lost all meaning but it was obvious from the state of the light that the fight had been going on for a long time.
Messengers, Firuz included, had been passing to and fro throughout to let Bohemund know if Raymond was making any progress and the news was far from encouraging. Having finally got his tower up to and leaning on the curtain wall he could no more get his men over it than could Bohemund.
Several times the defenders had set it alight, which meant all hands went to the buckets of water needed to douse the flames, warring knights included, while his diversionary attack had faltered completely from lack of the men to push it to a point where the defenders were pinned in place and thus unavailable to thwart the main assault.
‘He has men sapping at the wall beneath the tower.’
This was information Bohemund passed on to a blood-soaked Tancred, who had likewise been obliged to take a rest from fighting and come to join him. His nephew, who replied through strenuous efforts to get back his breath, suggested that it was a waste of time. How could men, with picks and shovels, in half a day hope to undermine the foundations of such well-constructed walls that had been standing for centuries?
‘And if nothing happens to aid us soon,’ Tancred gasped, using his sword to indicate a darkening sky, ‘we will be obliged to halt the attack.’
‘I have sent for torches. We fight on.’
‘Even if Raymond withdraws?’
‘He had the devil’s own task to get his damn tower into place and I doubt he can get it off again, so he will not abandon it.’
That was part of a message he had received: the front wheels, huge shaped timbers hewn by those English carpenters, had begun to sink into the imperfect ground underneath, its weight dislodging the earth and pebbles, even shifting the rocks that formed a more solid base. Bohemund’s informant reckoned there was no force of men nor beasts that would have the strength to get it off, so there were only two alternatives for the Count of Toulouse: to fight on in the dark or to torch the tower and fall back.
‘And that is a retreat that will not end back in his lines. There’s no time to build another tower with the state of our food.’
‘It would be better Raymond knows we intend to fight on, Uncle.’
The reply to Tancred had to wait until Bohemund had finished directing some of his men to a perceived weak spot, or was it that he wanted to think upon the notion – his nephew did not know – but when he did reply it was in the affirmative.
‘It has to come from a trusted source and my pride will not allow that it be me, so you must be the messenger.’
‘Happily,’ Tancred replied, which got him, even if all he could see was his uncle’s eyes, a less than kindly look.
‘Deliver the message and no more, for I need you here.’
‘Am I allowed to ask Raymond to reinforce us? He must have men free from his failed diversion.’
‘No.’
There was little temptation to dispute that, even if Tancred thought it short-sighted. The mere movement of Raymond’s knights from one wall to another might help to confuse the defence, might cause them to move men best left in place. These thoughts stayed with Tancred as he made his way to where flew Raymond’s banner. The ripple of reaction when he was sighted approaching was unmistakable; indeed, a pair of familia knights were detached in the increasing gloom of a cloudy twilight to intercept him.
He was just about to pass to them his message when they halted with startled expressions and looked beyond him, this at the same time as Tancred spun round, the reason for both a sound not unlike a thunderclap, except it did not come from above. He had to peer to see the crack that began to run up the wall to one side of Raymond’s tower but what followed was easily visible. The battlements at the top of that crack began to sag and with a rumble that sounded like the end of time the whole wall collapsed, to leave, once the dust cleared and Tancred could see, a high pile of rubble and above that a clear breach.
Despite his scoffing, the sappers had succeeded.