There was no attempt to kill on the scale the Lotharingians had attempted; the aim was to spread alarm. So the party stayed well clear of the men on guard and out of the arc of those flickering flames that stood central to the camp, choosing a tent where the sounds of deep slumber were obvious through the canvas.
The killing was silent, even to the point of the removal of the heads and, the deed done, they retired and called for their ladders to be relowered so they could re-enter the city. The whole affair had not lasted less than three glasses of sand and the half a dozen Turkish heads sat on Bohemund’s table were a welcome sight. Tancred’s enthusiasm would have been infectious to a less experienced soldier; for all that, his uncle made his pleasure more obvious than any reservations.
‘This way we spread terror. Let our enemies wake up each morning, whatever camp they occupy, to find six or more of their number decapitated and with no knowledge of how it had occurred. If we cannot fight them in open battle let us make slumber a risk.’
‘You have done well, Tancred, but have a care if you attempt to repeat this. What works once will not always allow for a second attempt.’
‘I am not fool enough to strike twice in the same place, Uncle.’
‘Wise,’ Bohemund responded, though he looked down to avoid Tancred’s eye. How could he say to his young and passionate nephew that at this rate of attrition he would still be killing Turks at the coming of the second millennium? ‘But next time leave the heads and bring back their victuals, which is a more pressing need.’
There was food, if not in abundance, but it was in the hands of those who wished to profit from ownership, and not just smugglers. The citizens of Antioch, or at least a good body of them, were as shrewd and rapacious as folk anywhere, sharpened by having already gone through one siege.
They knew how to hide what they had so it could not be stolen or sequestered by whoever held the city at a time of siege — livestock was kept in straw-lined cellars to avoid their bleating and crowing being overheard, wheat was stored in the rafters until desperation made the prices that could be extracted from the tired and famished fighting men rise to the right level.
Any Crusader who had managed to come upon and keep hold of some coin in the march from Nicaea was obliged to part with it now and for very little in return. Knights started by drinking the blood of their horses for sustenance, then when they became too weak to be of use in battle they killed them and consumed their carcasses, ignoring the effect on the loss of the ability to fight.
A dead oxen caused high excitement as the owner sought to sell it bit by bit, while the sight of a scrawny and ill-fed chicken being auctioned was enough to start a near riot so that the successful bidder was obliged to make a fast escape to keep what he had bought. Every member of the Council of Princes ate better, for they had the funds to do so, but they were also distributing a dole to their men, small payments that should have been enough to buy food, yet seemed to purchase less and less each day.
Toulouse was the wealthiest of the magnates, for fertile Provence, a rich region even before the Romans arrived, had for years made his coffers groan with gold and the silver coins still known by the Roman name of solidi.
If he used it to provide sustenance to his Provencal lances, he was also employing it to suborn men from the other contingents — Franks, Apulians, Normans and Lotharingians — urging them to desert to his banner so as to strengthen his hand in the council, sure his increasing numbers would eventually hold sway on any decisions made.
Bohemund worked hard to hold his men to him; he had managed to get some of his revenues from Apulia shipped over to St Simeon to bolster the fortune in treasure — literally a room full of gold, silver and jewels — he had received from the Emperor Alexius, his one-time enemy, in a bid to buy his loyalty.
Likewise every other prince had disbursed what Byzantine largesse they had been gifted and what they had in coin. Yet even with such subventions, hunger could not be staved off, any more than could Kerbogha be turned into a chimera, and if the acts of Toulouse caused resentment nought could be done to counter that either.
The pilgrims, many of whom had no money at all and received none from on high, were chewing old leather belts and making soup from grass and weeds — some were said to be eating their shoes — and being deeply devout and close to starvation, visions were becoming even more rife. Every act and every untoward noise was a portent, positive or the reverse, prophecies laden with either glorious deliverance and entry into heaven as martyrs or to a collective descent into flaming hell, there to burn for their transgressions, their pride and their heresies.
Many came to believe there was no salvation at all without divine intervention and that within days. Less superstitious minds still hoped for Byzantine aid, though with a decreasing level of expectation, for no news came of any approaching host.
There was nothing grand about any of the knights, ten in number, who stepped ashore at Alexandretta; their clothes were ragged and every one had days of facial growth, untidy and salt-streaked, evidence that the means to shave had not been available for the several days which must have been spent at sea.
That was the impression created when they were still afloat and it was not improved on closer inspection, for there were traces of dried blood, mixed with filth, on every one of their garments and not a few were carrying wounds, added to which they looked half-starved, standing in sharp contrast to the man who greeted them as they stepped onto the jetty.
‘Grandmesnil, is it you? And do I see Hugh of Liverot under all that hair? Bernard of Maine?’
Count Stephen of Blois was not only dressed in fine and clean garments, both his smooth face and ample body showed that no shortage of food had attended him for some time; indeed he was sleek to the point of causing resentment to men who, racked with hunger, had been obliged to scrape down the walls of Antioch in the dead of a cloudy and moonless night.
That achieved they had then to creep, many times on their belly, through lines of Turks to get to the rear of their camp before they could stand upright and try for a swifter progress. Blois rattled off several more names in greeting, for these were well-known captains he was addressing.
‘It is us as named, My Lord,’ William croaked, speaking for all.
‘Come from Antioch?’
‘Where else?’
The blood seemed to drain from the well-fed face. ‘Has it fallen to the Turk?’
‘No.’
William made that reply before he realised that an opportunity had been missed, for if it had not fallen what was he doing here? Blois clearly knew that it had been taken by the Crusade, just as he seemed well aware that it was now besieged and that would imply he was also aware of by whom and in what strength.
He recalled that Count Stephen had abandoned the siege while the army of the Crusade was still outside the walls, had fled the hunger, indeed near famine, of the winter and taken his three hundred lances with him. When it came to desertion the escaped knights could hold their heads up in the presence of this particular magnate. Added to that, William had the wit to employ an immediate excuse.
‘The situation is grave …’
‘It was far from ever good, William,’ Stephen interrupted, his voice sombre as he continued, having about it a speed of expression that robbed the words that followed of any verisimilitude. ‘I had intended to rejoin you all not long past, but then that devil Kerbogha got across my route to Antioch. I have spent much time trying to think of a way to get through his host without I lose every one of my men and my own life with it.’