Dust filled my lungs and eyes; I could not breathe or see. My head felt as if it had been driven down between my shoulder blades. Every bone and joint in my body ached, and my right arm tingled strangely. My hands were scraped raw, and my clothes were torn, the flesh peeled away from my right hip in a wide and nasty gash.
I could not think what had happened. All I knew was that one moment I had been making good my escape, and the next there was a Seljuq standing over me with a sword-point at my throat. I made to rise, but the fellow put his foot on my chest and shoved me firmly back down. I lay back, choking and blinking, trying to drag my shattered senses together.
A second warrior appeared above me, spoke a word, and the two of them reached down and hauled me roughly upright.
I found myself looking into the impassive face of the Seljuq leader.
Now, of course, I know that the Arab chieftain who addressed me was the Atabeg of Albistan. At the time, however, all I knew was that besides the white plume he possessed the natural authority of a respected leader; a single word or the flick of a hand brought unquestioning obedience from his men.
He regarded me with neither rancour nor curiosity, his shrewd dark eyes taking the measure of his prisoner. He must not have been impressed with what he saw before him, for after the briefest scrutiny, he said something to his companion and turned away. He moved towards his horse, and prepared to remount.
The Seljuq warrior beside me tightened his grip, and his comrade with the sword stepped aside-so as to get a better stroke, I thought, bracing myself for the killing blow.
But the man moved away, and I looked to see my own mount thrashing on the ground, trying to rise. Even in my dazed state I could see the poor beast's back was broken, and probably his right foreleg as well. In its eagerness to catch the others, the spirited grey had taken the path too quickly and had stumbled on the loose rock.
The commander spoke another quick burst to the soldier with the sword who bent to examine the injury to the animal. His brief scrutiny completed, he stood; the slow shake of his head confirmed what everyone already knew: there was no hope for the beast.
The commander raised his chin sharply, and the warrior bowed. Two men joined the first; one took the reins, and the other brought out a short throwing spear from its holder beneath his saddle. They made the horse lie on its side, and while one held the reins tightly, the other held the animal's head down, stroking the long jaw and whispering into its ear. The third warrior approached from behind with the spear.
A quick thrust up under the creature's skull, and it was over. The poor beast gave a shuddery kick, wheezed, and lay still. Satisfied that the horse had not suffered, the commander then turned and started back the way they had come.
A loop of rope was passed around my waist, and I was led off down the dry riverbed. I had to run to keep up, but, mercifully, it was no great distance, else I might have collapsed. Even so, my lungs were burning, and dark spots were dancing before my eyes by the time we reached our destination-a low place on the steep bank near where a number of Christian footmen and a few knights had thought to make their escape from the battlefield.
They had been ridden down and killed, and their bodies now lay strewn over the rocks and sand splattered red with their blood. The Seljuq raiding party had been searching for any who might have escaped along the river when we ran into them.
After a quick search of the dead for valuables, they were stripped of weapons and armour, and the Seljuq commander led his men up the low bank and out onto the plain once more, leading me, and three riderless horses behind them.
Most of the dead were amassed in the centre of the plain near the road they had been travelling on when Ghazi sprang his trap. As we approached the road, where the fighting had been fiercest, I began to see corpses heaped one upon another-most of them without armour, and a few even without weapons. I wondered at this and decided that the ambush must have caught them so suddenly that the knights did not have time to arm themselves before the enemy was upon them; they were cut down as they struggled into their helms and hauberks.
The blood of the slain had turned the dust-dry road into a sodden mess, churned to vile mud by the feet of soldiers and Seljuq horses. Already the air was thick with the stink of curdling blood as the white hot sun beat down on the carnage. The sick-sweet stench filled my nostrils bringing the gorge to my mouth; I gasped and gagged as I was pulled along, desperate to keep my feet lest I be dragged through the gore-slick muck.
I tried not to look at the dead, and averted my eyes whenever I could – their slack mouths and lolling tongues, their astonished empty stares, their raw and gaping wounds-lest they be disgraced in my sight. Their piteous plight filled me with an immense and oppressive remorse. I stumbled across the battle-plain staggering over the corpses, bitterness welling anew with every step. An entire army had been cruelly cut down for the ambition of one heedless, headstrong lord. God help me, I cursed Bohemond for the sacrilege of the self-willed arrogance that had blithely squandered so many lives.
My Seljuq captors came to a place a little distance from the road where the victors were gathering. There, under the watchful eyes of their commanders, a vast company of warriors were enthusiastically stripping the dead of their armour, weapons, and clothing. The various items-swords, shields, helmets, spears, mail caps and hauberks, and the like-were brought and tossed onto the swiftly growing heap. Nearby, another, smaller, pile was also increasing; this one contained all the items of silver and gold, or other valuable objects. Bohemond had pressed hard in his effort to reach the Armenian stronghold as quickly as possible, so the crusaders had not pillaged many towns along the way and consequently had little plunder with them.
While I watched this dismal display, a great cry went up from a host of Seljuq warriors massed a short distance away where they were occupied with some great amusement. They waved their curved swords in the air, shouting loudly and enthusiastically. I could not make out what demanded such zealous attention, but more and more warriors were being drawn to the display.
I was still trying to determine what was happening when Amir Ghazi arrived. Surrounded by a bodyguard of fifty warriors on horseback – most of them on milk-white stallions like his own, and all dressed alike in cloaks of deepest blue with crimson turbans-he sat comfortably upon a raised, cushioned saddle of fine polished leather edged in silver. A small, smooth-faced man, he was swathed in shimmering blue samite, and wore a huge red turban surmounted by a peacock plume held in place with a great glittering emerald the size of a duck egg. In his cloak of white samite, he fairly gleamed like a star in the harsh sunlight as he sat in his high saddle and gazed at the still-growing mounds of treasure and weapons with the calm, beatific smile of a cheerful god.
He advanced and reined up before the atabeg and his men. The two addressed one another amiably and fell to discussing, as I imagined, the battle and its aftermath. At one point, the amir turned his attention to me; my captor simply shrugged, as if my presence was of little consequence, and they went back to their conversation.
They were thus occupied when all at once another tremendous shout went up from the nearby host. The amir turned in the saddle and, raising himself in his silver stirrups, attempted to peer over the heads of the close-gathered throng. Fatting this, he spoke a command to his men, and a dozen or so warriors wheeled their mounts and rode to the gathering on the plain. Using the butts of their spears, the warriors began prodding them out of the way, clearing a path by which the amir might see what was taking place just beyond them.