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. 

The news came as a crushing blow. If the crusade had been defeated, then he was now dangerously exposed. The victorious Turks would surely counter-attack to regain their lost territory, and his lines of communication were already dangerously extended. There was no sense in throwing away what was left of imperial strength in a foolish campaign further south. Still, Alexius wavered, not wanting to abandon the crusaders if there was a chance to rescue some of them, but news of an approaching Turkish army settled the matter. The imperial army retreated to the capital, leaving small garrisons behind to protect the newly-won frontier. 

Stephen of Blois had damaged the Christian cause far more than he knew. Alexius had acted in the best interests of his empire, prudently salvaging what he could from a lost cause. But Stephen's assumption that the crusade had failed was wrong, and Alexius' retreat would be seen as a bitter betrayal by the crusaders. If only Stephen had kept his head for a few hours longer, much of the pain to come could have been avoided. On the same day that Stephen ran, the Armenian turncoat Firouz informed Bohemond that he was ready to betray Antioch. 

Bohemond wasted no time. He summoned an emergency council of the leading princes and shockingly announced that he was considering leaving the crusade because of pressing concerns in Italy. His words had the desired effect. He had played a leading role in every major engagement, and his prowess in battle was respected even by his enemies. Losing him now, with Kerbogah closing in would destroy whatever morale was left. As the reality of failure was settling in, Bohemond sprang his trap. He smoothly floated the idea that Antioch would be enough compensation for him to ignore the losses he was sustaining at home, and stay. Only Raymond of Toulouse objected. Whether or not he believed his rival's sincerity in wanting to return home, he certainly wasn't about to hand over Antioch to him. He forcibly reminded his colleagues of their oath to return all conquered property to the emperor, which was slightly embarrassing since everyone was aware that he alone had taken no such oath. 

Bohemond countered with a simple offer. The situation was bleak, and the emperor had forfeited his rights by not appearing in person to help them. If Bohemond and his men – unassisted by the others – could take Antioch, would they all agree to let him have it? Even Raymond could find no real objection. With everyone else in agreement he bowed to the inevitable and gave his assent – until Alexius could come in person to enforce his claim.

As soon as they had each sworn, Bohemond confided that he had a contact on the inside and elaborated his plan. The army would break camp and march out as if to confront the approaching Kerbogah. Under cover of night they would double back and slip into the city through a window that Firouz would leave unlocked. As proof of his good faith, the traitor had turned over his son to Bohemond's care. 

Two hours before dawn, Bohemond led sixty soldiers through Firouz's window and quickly took two nearby towers and the walls between. Some of the native Christians who had eluded expulsion managed to assist them in opening one of the main gates, and the entire army flooded inside. By nightfall there was hardly a Turk alive in the city.⁵⁸ After eight months of a grueling siege, Antioch was theirs. 

The ordeal, however, wasn't quite over. The city may have fallen, but the great citadel on top of Mount Silpius had not. The only real effort to take it had failed, and Bohemond had been wounded in the attempt. The presence of a hostile garrison still in the city dented the feeling of triumph, but Bohemond built a wall around the base of the mountain to prevent any attacks. The far more serious problem was the imminent arrival of Kerbogah. 

The fact that he wasn't already there was a minor miracle. The atabeg of Mosul had decided to divert his advance to crush the newly formed County of Edessa, and the three weeks it took him to realize that the cost wasn't worth it, had given the crusade its breathing room. 

When the excitement of the capture died down, the crusading princes met to assess the situation. The walls were obviously in good shape, and offered far better protection than their camp outside of the city. Morale had also vastly improved, and they no longer had to worry about mass desertions. But in other ways they were almost worse off. The walls may have offered protection, but they were also a liability since the crusaders lacked the manpower to completely guard them. The most unpleasant discovery, however, was that their food situation was still dire. The long siege had depleted the city's supplies and the crusaders had nothing to restock them with. They also didn't have time. Only two days after they captured Antioch, Kerbogah arrived. 

The most vulnerable section of the walls was manned by Bohemond's troops, and Kerbogah launched an immediate attack, hoping to catch them off guard. It was beaten back with difficulty, and the Turks settled down to wait. 

The atabeg of Mosul was well aware of the situation within Antioch. The garrison in the city's citadel had been sending him regular updates and he had captured several deserting crusaders. The latter of these were tortured for information and then mutilated in front of the walls to demoralize their comrades. It was surely only a matter of time before the crusaders simply surrendered. Kerbogah had enough men to completely surround the city, and without fresh supplies the Christians couldn't last for long. 

The situation in Antioch deteriorated quickly. After the euphoria of their victory, it must have been doubly crushing for the crusaders to once again be reduced to starvation diets. The few horses that were left were butchered for food, and many soldiers subsisted on the leaves of trees, discarded animal skins or whatever leather they could find. Virtually the only hope that many of the crusaders had clung to was that the emperor would arrive with a relief force, but even that was taken from them. One of the last bits of news that had reached the city before the Turks had closed the siege had been Alexius' retreat. Both Stephen of Blois and the Byzantines were bitterly cursed as cowards. All oaths pledged to the emperor were now considered void. 

The Holy Lance

Only a miracle could save the trapped army now, and fortunately heaven obliged. On the fifth day of the siege, a poorly dressed French peasant by the name of Peter Bartholomew burst into Count Raymond's tent and insisted on seeing Bishop Adhemar. Raymond's first inclination was to refuse. Peter was known to be a lazy hedonist, but he now seemed so intensely transformed that the count let him through. 

Peter Bartholomew's story managed to be both incredible and mildly insulting. He claimed that Saint Andrew – the elder brother of Saint Peter – had appeared to him in a series of visions and shown him where the Holy Lance was buried. The spear that had pierced Christ's side after the Crucifixion was one of the holiest relics in Christendom, and its discovery would be a powerful sign that God's favor was with the crusaders. Peter Bartholomew, however, wasn't quite finished. Saint Andrew had ordered him, he claimed, to immediately seek out both Raymond and Adhemar. Raymond was to be shown where the Lance was buried, while Adhemar was to be rebuked for neglecting his duties as a preacher. 

Unsurprisingly, the Bishop of Le Puy was less thrilled by the news than Raymond. Apart from the criticism directed at him, there already was a relic venerated as the Holy Lance in Constantinople, and Adhemar had seen it during his visit to the city. While Raymond believed the claims, Adhemar convinced him to postpone the search for the Lance while Peter Bartholomew was questioned by his chaplain. 

If Adhemar was attempting to suppress news of the vision until he could decide if it was genuine, he quickly failed. Word swept through the army, and in the feverish atmosphere visions multiplied. A well-respected priest came forward saying that Christ himself had appeared and informed him that the crusaders were being punished for their wickedness and unbelief. If they repented, he continued, Christ would send help in five days’ time. The next day, as if to confirm both visions, a meteor was seen streaking through the sky, seeming to land in the middle of the Turkish camp. 

Peter Bartholomew claimed that the Holy Lance was buried beneath the floor of Antioch's cathedral, and by the time he was led there, anticipation was at a frenzied pitch. All day the workmen dug, and as the hours passed, the mood grew restive. Raymond, who had lent his credibility to the project couldn’t stand the pressure and left, believing that he had been duped. Finally, Peter Bartholomew himself leapt into the hole and, commanding everyone to pray, started digging with his bare hands. After a few moments he shouted triumphantly and held up a rusted piece of metal in his fist. 

Other than Raymond, the crusading princes were probably not convinced – Adhemar certainly wasn't. But the news electrified the army, and the princes were more than willing to keep their doubts to themselves. In any case, Peter Bartholomew went on to damage his own credibility. Saint Andrew became a regular visitor, and his instructions started to become oddly specific. Raymond of Toulouse, who had been delighted by the find and mounted the spearhead on a pole, fell ill, and in his absence, Bohemond became the de facto leader of the crusade. He announced a five-day fast – helpfully confirmed by Saint Andrew – at the conclusion of which he would lead an attack on the besieging army. Assisted by the hosts of heaven and led by the Holy Lance, they would easily put Kerbogah to flight. 

In the meantime, a delegation was sent to the Turkish camp ostensibly to ask for terms, but in reality to gain whatever information it could. The leader chosen for this expedition was none other than Peter the Hermit, who had refurbished his reputation since his attempted flight. The news he brought back from the enemy camp was encouraging. Kerbogah had naturally demanded unconditional surrender, but there was palpable tension in his camp. Now was the right time for an attack. 

On June 28, 1098, after an inspiring sermon by Peter the Hermit, Bohemond led the entire crusading army out of one of Antioch's gates, leaving behind only the sick and the old who were to watch from the walls and pray. 

Although optimism was high, the sight of the crusader army was more pathetic than imposing. After months of starvation they were badly weakened. Mail shirts hung awkwardly over too-thin frames, and armor no longer tightly fit. Many of the knights stumbled along on foot, while the rest rode whatever pack animals hadn't been killed for food. Nevertheless, their attack was perfectly timed. 

Kerbogah had cobbled together a massive army, but his alliances were crumbling. Most of the emirs present had been forced to join, and all of them mistrusted Kerbogah's ambition. If he was allowed to take Antioch, he would be irresistible. These shambling crusaders were no real danger compared to the atabeg. Failure here would dent his prestige enough to make him manageable. 

While the emirs wavered, Kerbogah made several tactical mistakes. He wanted to wipe the crusaders out with a single blow, so instead of attacking, he waited for them to finish exiting the city. When they were out, however, he was astonished by their numbers, and tried to negotiate. The crusaders ignored the messengers, advancing in good order. The unnerved atabeg set fire to the grass between the armies to delay them, but the smoke blew into the faces of the Turks, blinding them. Kerbogah tried to retreat, but his emirs bolted, and what had been a tactical withdrawal turned into a full-scale rout. Armenian and Syrian shepherds, seeing the chance for revenge for a decade of Turkish oppression came down from the hills to join the slaughter. 

The scale of the victory was stunning. The Turkish threat, which just hours before had seemed sure to devour them, had evaporated completely. While much of the credit was given to Bohemond – he had both captured the city in the first place and led the charge that freed it – most were convinced that it was God's direct hand that was responsible. Those who had watched from the walls reported that angels, saints, and the spirits of dead crusaders could be seen fighting alongside the army. 

Deteriorating Relations

The only person with any cause to be unhappy was Raymond of Toulouse. Illness had forced him to sit out the climactic battle, and it galled him to see his rival being heaped with praise. His temper soured further by the behavior of the Turkish defenders of the citadel on Mount Silpius. They had watched the debacle unfold and knew that further resistance was useless, and so sent a messenger to Raymond's tent to announce their surrender. Raymond sent his banner back to be raised as a sign of submission, but when the garrison commander saw whose symbol it was, he refused, saying that he would only surrender to Bohemond. The Norman, as usual, had already established contacts with the citadel, and its commander had secretly agreed that in the event of a Christian victory, he would only deal with Bohemond. Neither threats nor insults could change his mind. Only when Bohemond himself appeared, did the commander open the gates and surrender.⁵⁹ 

For Raymond this was the last straw. The other princes were ready to turn over the city to Bohemond and be on their way to Jerusalem, but he dug in his heels. The argument that it should be turned over to Alexius was a non-starter, so he switched tactics. They had all sworn an oath to God to return Jerusalem to Christian control, and none of them should be permitted to abandon this in favor of carving out little kingdoms for themselves. A garrison should be chosen from the entire army, and Bohemond should remain with the crusade. Bohemond, of course, had no intention of marching a step further, so he remained where he was, refusing to budge. 

Since July had already begun, Adhemar counseled the princes to remain where they were. This was prudent advice. The road ahead lay through the blazing Syrian Desert, and there was little to be gained by trying to cross it at the height of summer. It was announced that the army would stay in Antioch till November 1, by which time it was hoped that the leaders would have settled their differences. 

If anyone could have soothed the ruffled feathers of Bohemond and Raymond it would have been Adhemar, but unfortunately he never got the chance. Conditions in the city weren't sanitary – the dead of the sack had barely had time to be buried before Kerbogah showed up – and that summer a plague hit the city. Adhemar was among the first victims, robbing the crusade of its most steady hand, and the one figure who could have united them. 

As the months passed, it became apparent to everyone that neither Raymond nor Bohemond would give in. This was not for lack of trying on Bohemond's part. Peter Bartholomew was produced, claiming that he had another vision. This time St. Andrew had commanded that the city be given to Bohemond, on the condition that he would materially assist the army with the taking of Jerusalem. 

This was thoroughly embarrassing to Raymond, who continued to argue that the Holy Lance was real, despite now denying the visions that had revealed it in the first place. Peter Bartholomew, however, couldn't help himself, and kept talking. Another vision revealed that Adhemar, who Peter hated for denying the authenticity of his original vision, had gone to hell, and had only been delivered by the prayers of Bohemond. This effectively ruined Peter's reputation. Adhemar was one of the most popular leaders, and his death had sincerely been mourned by the entire army. The whole episode merely increased tensions between the princes.

The crusade was stuck in limbo, and as the November deadline passed, it began to seem as if it would never move again. The rank and file didn't care a whit which of their leaders received control of Antioch. In fact, they barely cared about Antioch at all. They had sworn an oath and given up everything to liberate Jerusalem, and the longer they delayed in Asia Minor, the more frustrated they became. Their goal lay only a few weeks march to the south, unreachable not because of the strength of the enemy, but because of the hubris of their own leaders. 

Finally, on November 5, they had had enough. As the princes were meeting in the city's cathedral, attempting unsuccessfully to come to some kind of compromise, representatives from the army interrupted them, handing them an ultimatum. If the order to depart wasn't given, the army would tear down the walls of Antioch and leave their leaders behind to rot. 

Faced with a mutiny, the princes came to an agreement. Bohemond would stay in Antioch, and Raymond would be named the commander-in-chief of the entire army. Although he gladly accepted, it was a hollow victory for Raymond. The title came with no authority – it was a spur to move again, not a recognition of actual command. But the two rivals were out of each other's hair, and the army could at last concentrate on finishing their great endeavor. 

On January 13, 1099, a full fifteen months after they had arrived at Antioch, a barefoot Raymond, dressed in the simple clothes of a pilgrim, led the army out of the main gate of the city.