Many times his squire had been told that one day he would wake up from laying with a woman in what was enemy territory to find his coxcomb sliced off, that was if the knife was not used to slit his throat. They were dalliances; the situation now was worse and the only concession to the younger man was that his uncle took him to a private place to berate him.
‘Where are the Turks?’
‘In Nicaea.’
Bohemund was good at concealing his anger if he needed to; he did not now. His frown was deep and the look in his eye incensed and for once, though there was not much between them in actual height, Tancred felt small.
‘I do not mean them and you know it!’
Aware he was under a cloud Tancred was determined not to show it; he was, in his own mind, just as much of a de Hauteville as his uncle and with that went the family pride. ‘If you mean Kilij Arslan he is well to the east.’
‘You know that for certain?’
‘The Byzantines have assured us it is so.’
‘Was so, Tancred!’
‘We would have been told if he had moved west.’
‘By whom?’
‘The rest of the host or the Byzantine army.’
‘And where are they?’
‘On the way to here, I presume.’
‘You presume? Close are they? Days away? A week?’
Failing a response it was superfluous to point out that Tancred did not know, and neither did Vermandois or the Count of Flanders when the same question was put to them. Nor was it necessary to point out that had the Sultan of Rum appeared with even part of his army — the fast-riding mounted archers, for instance — and aided by the garrison of Nicaea, Bohemund would have arrived to find the bones of the entire force littering the ground, a point he made with some force, if less obvious fury, to Tancred’s fellow commanders.
For once the problem of the Crusade was not men hankering after authority but the lack of anyone willing to assume it; seeing each other as at least equals — if anything, Tancred stood slightly lower in the firmament — none of the trio, even the haughty Vermandois, had taken the responsibility for the whole.
‘Gather up your men and what supplies you can easily move. We will find a position we can defend and one from which we can hastily depart if the enemy shows. Send the fastest messenger you can back north and find out where the rest of the army is.’
The gravity of their error had struck home to Tancred and it was scant excuse to say he had only acquiesced in what was a common point of view. Determined to re-establish himself in his own estimation as well as that of Bohemund, he spoke up loudly.
‘A retreat through mountains puts us at risk, especially those on foot.’
That gave Bohemund obvious pause and after a second he nodded. ‘I have ships full of supplies offshore. Those of us mounted can get clear and outrun any pursuit. Designate their captains to lead the milities to the shore and we will embark them.’
‘What about the supplies?’ asked Vermandois. ‘You will not have space for both.’
‘Those we will tip overboard, Count Hugh, for it must be plain, even to you, that if we are driven away from Nicaea we will not need them.’
It took several beats of his French heart to take cognisance of the implied insult in the remark ‘even to you’. He swelled up to protest and to demand an apology, only to deflate when the obvious occurred to him: he could not openly challenge a giant like Bohemund of Taranto to anything that might end up as a test of arms.
‘Do as I say and do it now!’
‘They were preparing to break camp when I arrived, My Lord, with Godfrey de Bouillon and his attendant priests leading the way. When they depart the camp the forces of Raymond of Toulouse will come on from Constantinople to join him.’
‘Preparing?’ Bohemund sighed; if the returned messenger was telling him what he had feared it was not what he had hoped.
‘I was told that they were waiting for the Emperor, and were only going to move when he did so.’
‘And has he?’
‘There is a Byzantine force based in a separate camp at Pelekanum and Bishop Ademar is assured they are about to march.’
‘Has the Emperor departed Constantinople?’
‘They have had no news of such a departure.’
Bohemund spun on his heel and called for Manuel Boutoumites to be fetched to his presence. Waiting for the summons to be obeyed he eyed the state of the defences he had set up on the steep slope that had at its back an entry into the higher northern hills, which included a second circuitous pathway to the shoreline. Large boulders had been dislodged and rolled down to the level ground, where they would break up the cohesion of any formations seeking to advance towards the Crusaders, especially mounted.
Between those the ground had been cleared of stones so that the horsed portion of his force could descend rapidly and safely to engage the disorganised enemy, the Apulian Normans held in reserve for a disciplined final charge to cover a retreat; they were, quite simply, much more effective than the men led by Flanders or Vermandois. On the highest peak within plain sight a piquet had been set to keep a watch to the east for any telltale dust cloud, which would herald the approach of the Sultan.
Boutoumites was slow in responding, making the very obvious point that if the Count of Taranto could order the other leaders about he was not to be told what to do. A good-looking fellow, with full lips and a flaring set of nostrils, Manuel Boutoumites found it easy to display arrogance and he was doing so now, not least in the flaunting of the silks with which the governor of Nicaea had rewarded him. Putting aside the temptation to fetch him a buffet round the ears, Bohemund forced himself to smile.
‘I require you to counsel me, Curopalates.’ That changed the man’s expression; no one had used his honorific title since he had left the Byzantine court. ‘And I am sure you will do so freely and honestly.’
‘I cannot think of a reason why I should lie,’ Boutoumites replied, his original arch expression quickly reimposed. If size forced him to look up, his countenance implied he was doing the opposite.
‘No, I did not mean that. Forgive me for being so clumsy.’
That got a firm nod; Boutoumites, despite any dealings he had had with this giant, was sure he was dealing with an ill-educated barbarian and one he expected to be maladroit with words; had he been able to see into the mind of the man to whom he was being so condescending he would have shuddered. Bohemund was thinking that all he would get was lies, that he could easily get the answer to the question he was about to pose by tying this swine to a stake and sticking a heated sword point up his arse. Tempting as such an act might be, it would not sit well with Alexius or probably his fellow Crusaders, so he continued in his emollient tone.
‘I merely wish to enquire as to what level of force the Emperor will send to Nicaea?’
‘He will despatch whatever force he thinks is necessary, Count Bohemund.’
‘Not his entire army?’
‘He will not denude the city, he dare not.’
‘But the numbers will be what?’ That got a shake of the head that implied ignorance. ‘You were not told?’
‘I did not enquire.’
In a career of much fighting, there had also been in Bohemund’s life a high degree of negotiation; results were not always achieved by force of arms so he was well versed in the arts required. He had dealt with his fellow Normans, who were devious enough but as nought compared to the wily Greeks of Italy and the slippery Lombards who had once ruled over them. Boutoumites was lying; he did know, but he was never going to say.