Jack Ludlow: Prince of Legend

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.