Jack Ludlow: Soldier of Crusade

The whole city was soon in uproar, the wiser citizens hiding in their houses, leaving the streets to become a killing zone for the Turks, many of whom fought desperately and well, but died anyway given their efforts were uncoordinated and they were unprepared. Added to that, on the outside the noise of battle had roused out all the other Crusader sections, Raymond and the Duke of Normandy, once they realised what was afoot, quick to get their men to a gate that would open before them once their confreres on the other side had secured it.

For many a glass of sand the fighting went on, still in darkness and torchlight. Blood illuminated by flaring flame was black and it flowed in the gutter like rainfall, only turning to red when the sun began to rise. Eventually that crested the mountains enough to light the great banner that Fulcher had raised on the highest tower of Mount Silpius, the red fluttering standard with the blue and white chequer of the house of de Hauteville.

Tancred and Bohemund stood in front of the Church of the Martyr, St Ignatius, chests heaving and covered in blood and gore, while all around them battle continued, for the Turks would not give up easily and if they had to die, they would not do so cheaply, their eyes fixed on their family ensign.

‘What would your father say to this, Uncle?’

‘Who knows? The Guiscard was never one for praise.’

‘He might loosen his feelings in the face of this; he might say, “Hail, Bohemund, Prince of Antioch.”’