‘They could take the city while we are outside!’
‘If we are beaten Kerbogha will take Antioch anyway, Count Raymond, and I am putting my faith in the fact that we will tempt our Atabeg with a morsel he cannot resist.’
Sensing the need to explain further Bohemund stood closer to the table on which lay the map of Antioch and its surroundings.
‘Kerbogha wants to destroy us, wants to say to all of his peers that the men who defeated every army sent against it was brought low by him.’
‘You can see into his mind?’
‘Perhaps,’ the Duke of Normandy interjected, to put Raymond in his place ‘my confrere can see into more than one.’
‘It does no harm,’ Ademar suggested, emollient as ever, ‘to test notions of what might be. Even as a mere cleric I know that.’
Godfrey of Bouillon laughed out loud. ‘If God had many mere clerics like you, My Lord Bishop, then all of Islam would quake and Kerbogha would up sticks and flee back to Mosul.’
If the Bishop of Puy-en-Velay was flattered, he hid it behind a display of becoming modesty, but Godfrey’s sally had spread amusement and done more to lighten the atmosphere than all the priestly soothing, which allowed Bohemund to continue.
‘I suggest we tempt him with that destruction and hope that seeing us outside the walls he will do nothing to require us to withdraw, which an attack from the citadel will most surely require. I am guessing …’
That word got an indrawn breath from Vermandois and Toulouse which Bohemund ignored: what was the point of explaining to men who knew as well as he did that war was a game of chance and this was no different? All any general could do was make a plan and hope that he could maintain his, while throwing his opponents off their own.
‘I believe he will order those in and to the rear of the citadel to do nothing to take the shine off his anticipated glory. Those men are commanded by Shams ad-Daulah even if he fights under Kerbogha’s banner. The last thing our Atabeg will want is possession of the city gifted to him by the son of the last governor.’
‘And if you are mistaken?’ Toulouse demanded.
Bohemund declined to respond directly to that meaningless question and instead spoke to them all.
‘Do I need to remind you of how desperate our situation is, My Lords? We either fight on what terms we can manage or we march out with naked, shrunken bellies and halters round our necks within days, to have our blood turn the Orontes red. I tell you, if we cannot engage as a body of maximum strength, I will march out alone with my Apulians and you can watch the slaughter from the walls and get an early sight of your own fate.’
‘Finish outlining your plan, Count Bohemund,’ Ademar replied, his voice strong and commanding for once. ‘And by my faith let us all attend to it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bohemund’s first act was to seek to seal the city, which was difficult, and to keep his preparations from common discussion, which was even harder. If Kerbogha got wind of his intentions he could easily move to counter them and render any exit from the city impossible. That imposed a time constraint as welclass="underline" to keep matters covert would not last long. Luckily, all the fighting men had weapons that were ready for use; indeed they expected to employ them every day, so they could be left in ignorance until just before the action.
What they lacked was satisfied bellies, but no more so than the small number of mounts he could muster, who were near to being skeletal. His first act, tactfully including the council in the decision, was to make a quick distribution of the available food to both, not enough to remedy weeks of shortage, but one massively more than that to which they had been recently accustomed, which acted upon their spirits as well as their stomachs.
Ever since the departure of William of Grandmesnil and his deserting knights, the walls had been more carefully patrolled as a matter of course, with a system of token checks, on the old Roman model, by section leaders, they visiting each sentry at irregular intervals to ensure those guarding them were both awake and alert, while a captain made flying visits and kept everyone on their toes.
They had added instructions to alert the Turks to any flight by an individual. As a sanction that was made effective by the way the enemy reacted, waiting till daylight and allowing those still inside to watch the skin being stripped off the screaming victims they had intercepted, for, despite every precaution, some still tried.
Every fellow magnate was allotted a role, and despite his earlier demand for sole control it was clear to the Count of Taranto that men would fight better for their liege lord than any other commander; all he asked was that his peers stick to his initial plan and act positively to any instructions he subsequently issued.
It was just as important that the men leading individual companies were made aware of what was required and they were gathered the evening before the plan was to be executed to be made privy to the outline. Looking at them in guttering candlelight Bohemund could see in their eyes what was in every heart including his own: this as an enterprise was likely to be terminal.
If Vermandois was a military ignoramus he was a fiery one, always seeking to initiate a wild charge even when circumstances demanded caution, convinced that in times to come chroniclers of bravery and knightly good conduct would sing of his sterling deeds. One of the attributes of good generalship is the ability to use those gifts possessed by any man you command, even if they are limited. Thus Count Hugh was given the task of driving the Turks away from the Bridge Gate to allow the rest of the crusading host to deploy, for he had the recklessness such a mission required.
Given all of the horses as well as every single man who could use a bow, either mounted or on foot, Bohemund had them crowd behind the barred gate in darkness and in silence so as not to alert the citadel. Behind this body of men the streets and squares were filling up with all the other fighting contingents, every one on foot, all silent and commending their souls to heaven, while the pilgrims prayed for them in the churches and the local Armenians hid and trembled in their cellars.
Somehow Vermandois had got hold of a sleek white horse, albeit also with prominent ribs — he had probably sold the last of his plate to acquire such a beast — and he had upon his surcoat not the Crusader cross but the multi fleur-de-lis device of Clovis, founder of the French Kingdom and his claimed ancestor. His eyes at the final conference, before he donned his helmet, had shone with the prospect of the glory he was sure he was bound to achieve.
Bohemund, who would give the order to attack, looking at him by the light of a single torch in the deep doorway of the palace of the Patriarch of Antioch, wondered if, in his quest for that laurel, he might lead his contingent to an ignominious death. The temptation to speak, to ask Count Hugh to calm himself, was put aside for it would have been pointless; all he could do was follow him to the head of his troops.
The first daylight to touch anything visible lit the huge green flag that flew high above the citadel, hanging limp in the calm of a windless morning. That would begin to lightly flutter as the sun rose over the mountains to the east, its heat stirring the first breeze of the day, while down below it was still in shadow and that was where advantage lay. There would be enough time to commence an attack and enough light, Bohemund had calculated, to press it home before the citadel could sound a trumpet to alert those camped close to the city walls.