Armies of Heaven (41 page)

Augustine condemned millenarianism, in part because it encouraged Christians to speculate about the precise date of the Last Judgment, which violated Christ's declaration that “no one knows the hour or the day, not even the angels of heaven.” On the other hand, in the same passage Christ warns his apostles that they can recognize the end times when certain signs appear—false prophets, wars, rumor of war, earthquakes, famines, wonders in the sky, and an abomination occupying the holy place in Jerusalem. Within the first year of the crusade, if not on the eve of its departure, all of these signs were readily apparent. And to speculate as to whether these events presaged the Last Days did not violate Christ's words. Rather, it obeyed them, since He compares these signs of the end times to the changing of the seasons. When fig trees “sprout leaves, you can see for yourselves and know that summer is near. In just this way, when you see these things happening, you know that the kingdom of God is near.” It probably was not lost on the army's clerics that at that very moment in May 1099 the crusaders were surrounded by the very fig trees that had inspired Christ's parable and their leaves had begun to sprout.
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By the eleventh century, apocalyptic speculation about the end of the world had developed some fairly specific contours. Out of a potent cocktail of Scripture—chiefly, the books of Daniel, II Thessalonians, and Revelation—medieval prophets had produced a detailed description of the Last Days. They would begin after the Roman Empire had ended—a time of “rebellion” or “falling away” foretold in Thessalonians, or the collapse of the giant statue with clay and iron feet dreamed of by Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel. According to medieval interpretations (and contrary to modern understanding), Rome had not fallen; though much decayed, it still lived through the imperial rulers of Germany or else through the kings of the Franks, depending upon one's national prejudices. But the empire itself
was in disrepair. The theoretical Western Roman emperor, Henry IV, was at war with the Roman pope—a sign of rebellion and falling away if ever there was one. Hence Daniel's description of the statue's feet as “iron mixed with clay”—put colloquially, Rome wasn't what it used to be. But nonetheless a pitiful, doddering Roman Empire existed, and as long as it did, the Last Days could not commence. (Latin writers do not seem to have considered Byzantium a legitimate successor to Rome, at least not after Charlemagne was crowned emperor in 800 AD.)

The Last Days would begin, however, not with the gradual failure of Rome but with the appearance of a new emperor, a king of the Greeks and Romans who would reunite the empire and make it more powerful than it had ever been. And when his power was at its apogee, he would travel to Jerusalem, there to wear a crown and thus signal the triumph of Christian government. This vision had inspired Henry IV to dream of conquering first Rome, before marching on Constantinople, and then eventually arriving at Jerusalem. The same vision, as noted much earlier, seems to have inspired Emicho of Flonheim, who encouraged his followers to believe—for reasons now unfathomable—that he was the Last Emperor. And though Emicho had long ago abandoned the expedition, after his disastrous failure to cross Hungary, some of his followers remained, from time to time likely retelling the Last Emperor legend and speculating if either Bohemond or Raymond might be more likely to fulfill the role.

But the Last Emperor had a problem. According to prophetic understanding—enshrined in Western Europe in the 950s when a book called
The Life of Antichrist
was written—the most dramatic act of that emperor would not be to rule in Jerusalem but to abdicate. For upon his arrival in the holy city, he would lay down his scepter and crown on the Mount of Olives. After nearly a millennium and a half, Roman government would draw to a close, “the end and the completion of the rule of the Romans and the Christians.” The way would be open for the terrifying armies of Antichrist, whose servants the Saracens so closely resembled. [Plate 7] As visions of one thousand years of unbroken peace started to fade, these dreams of a final world empire striking one last blow against the dragon would have haunted the thoughts of the crusaders. This happy fantasy just needed a prophet to give it substance.
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There were several plausible candidates to assume this visionary role. One of them, Peter the Hermit, had never really left. As we have seen, he served as the princes' emissary to Kerbogah before the final battle of Antioch, and he also seems to have delivered sermons and helped to preside at the trial of Peter Bartholomew. Just before the trial by fire, probably before Godfrey and Robert of Flanders arrived at Arqa, Peter the Hermit had taken responsibility for the distribution of charity within the army. According to a system established by Raymond of Saint-Gilles and Robert of Normandy, all of the pilgrims were to contribute tithes. From this sum, one-quarter would go to bishops, another quarter to priests, and half to Peter the Hermit, who would give the money to impoverished clerics and laymen. For a man who had begun the crusade brandishing a letter sent from heaven and inspiring his followers to massacre Jews, it was a surprisingly responsible position. Peter had obviously managed to regain the trust of many important people after his near desertion and disgrace at Antioch. But he also had become the princes' prophet and as such might not have been the most effective person to capture and direct the energies of Peter Bartholomew's supporters.
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The person who most immediately sought to fill that role was Stephen of Valence, who at the siege of Antioch had spoken with Christ, Mary, and Peter and who had defended Peter Bartholomew during his trial. After the great ordeal but before Peter had died, Stephen informed Count Raymond that instructions continued to arrive from heaven. Most recently, as Stephen had been walking through the camp, the dead Bishop Adhémar had come out of nowhere and hit him with a stick. Stephen fell to the ground, understandably surprised, but Adhémar had already approached him twice before. “Why have you failed once and now twice,” Adhémar asked Stephen, “to do what I told you about the Cross of the Lord and of the Virgin Mary our Mother? I told you about that cross that I used to have carried before me in the army. What better sign is there than the Cross?” Adhémar's personal cross had been left behind, just to the north, in the Greek city of Latakia. It was time to bring it back. Indeed, the Virgin Mary had decreed that until the cross was returned, the army would receive no useful counsel.

“Oh, most beloved lord, where is Blessed Mary?” Stephen cried, no doubt remembering his previous encounter with her in Antioch and wanting to see her again.

Adhémar pointed to a woman standing about thirty feet in the distance, alongside two other virgins. One of them Stephen did not recognize. The other he knew to be St. Agatha, likely because of her distinctive appearance. A third-century martyr, she was most famous for having had her breasts cut off. Mary declined to talk directly to Stephen, so Adhémar carried his request to her. She refused to grant it. Instead, she ordered Stephen to give his ring to Count Raymond and tell him, “Whenever you seem to fail in anything, remember the Lady who sent this to you. If you call on her, the Lord will help you.”

Stephen also asked Adhémar if he had really been burned in hell, a rumor that must have left some in the army incredulous. “Look!” Adhémar said. “See my face? Doesn't it look burned?” Adhémar, through Stephen, thus tried again to strengthen belief in the stories of Peter Bartholomew, even as Peter lay dying. In line with this goal, Adhémar ordered that the Provençals continue to carry the Holy Lance in public, but that it should be wrapped in sacred vestments, held by a priest, and carried behind Adhémar's cross (still at Latakia) hanging from the tip of a spear. To illustrate his instructions, Adhémar dangled his cross from a spear, as a priest marched behind him with the Lance. The bishop then sang, “Rejoice, Virgin Mary! You alone crush all heresies!” It became a heavenly roar, as 100,000 voices joined in.

Then the chorus vanished. Silence followed. Waking from the dream, Stephen ran to the count in part to discover if the Holy Lance still existed. As far as he knew, the fire had consumed it. When Raymond revealed the relic to him, Stephen burst into tears, and the count was so moved by Stephen's story that he sent William Hugh of Monteil, Adhémar's own brother, to recover the cross at Latakia. Peter may have died, but something of his message and of Raymond's reputation might yet survive him.
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By the time of this vision, political events were moving faster than Raymond or any of the visionaries could predict or control. For even as Adhémar was beating Stephen of Valence with a stick, a delegation had arrived from Alexius demanding that Bohemond return Antioch to the
emperor. They were probably surprised not to find Bohemond at Arqa. Alexius also strongly recommended that the crusaders wait until July 25 before going to Jerusalem. At that time he would finally join them and march to the Holy Sepulcher. Some in the army were sympathetic to these requests. Raymond in particular still had hopes both of conquering Arqa and bringing Tripoli to heel. Most of the soldiers, however, had grown tired of this endless wrangling over Antioch. And many of them believed as well, based on rumors out of Tripoli, that Alexius was actively negotiating with the Egyptians, trying to find a mutually acceptable course that would allow Greek and Saracen together to drive the Franks out of the East. If anything, July 25 seemed like a deadline—a date by which the army needed to have conquered Jerusalem, before Alexius could arrive and interfere with its plans.
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About the same time, the Franks received still more ambassadors into their camp. These men were from Cairo, and it seems to have been the first direct contact that the crusaders had had with “the Babylonian king” since they had sent his ambassadors, loaded down with severed heads, away from Saint-Simeon. At the time the Franks had been willing to strike an agreement with Cairo along the lines of what they had proposed to Alexius—they would restore Fatimid cities that the Seljuk Turks had recently captured in exchange for uncontested possession of Jerusalem. Al-Afdal, the vizier of Egypt, however, was no longer interested in power sharing. Jerusalem was his. He would allow the Franks to visit it unimpeded, in groups of two hundred or three hundred pilgrims, but he was no longer willing to concede possession of any part of the city. The Franks probably kept talking and kept making proposals, but they no longer believed anything the Egyptians told them. From Tripoli they had learned that al-Afdal was making diplomatic overtures not only to the Greeks but also to the Turks. The chaplain Raymond of Aguilers had even heard that the Turks were offering to convert to Shi'i Islam and become tributaries of Egypt if only Cairo would join them against the crusaders.
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Before any of these diplomatic maneuvers had a chance to succeed, or before the Egyptians had a chance to consolidate their hold on Jerusalem, the Franks needed to move. They had two problems: extricating themselves from Arqa and convincing Count Raymond to leave with
them. The former problem was relatively easy. The amir of Tripoli had always wanted a negotiated settlement with the Franks (and probably would not have minded seeing the crusade inflict real damage on Egypt). In order to reopen negotiations from a position of strength, the princes made a threatening advance on Tripoli itself. The amir decided to engage them, resulting in a brief, violent battle outside the city that ended with Tripoli's Roman aqueduct filling up with Turkish corpses. It was, Raymond of Aguilers observed, a delightful sight. The amir then offered terms, promising to pay the Franks a handsome tribute and release all of the prisoners he had taken during the previous three months of the siege. And if the Franks took Jerusalem, he would consider conversion to Christianity.
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But Raymond was reluctant to give up his prize. Supernatural pressure was needed to change the count's mind, and it came from all directions. Arnulf the Norman priest motivated his people into action by sculpting a golden cross, strangely reminiscent of the golden calf Aaron cast for the Children of Israel in the Book of Exodus while Moses was receiving the law on Mount Sinai. Arnulf then delivered a simple sermon to the people that moved them to feel shame at their indolence. Closer to Raymond, the priest Peter Desiderius, who had spoken at Peter Bartholomew's trial and confirmed that he had seen Bishop Adhémar in hell, approached the count of Saint-Gilles and told him that he now had just seen St. Andrew, who had asked Peter Desiderius to talk to the count. Raymond was, Andrew commanded, to give up his designs on Tripoli and Arqa. Neither of these cities would fall unless the Franks first captured Jerusalem. But if they did conquer Jerusalem, then both of these prizes, and others still, could be his.

At the same time, William Hugh of Monteil returned with Adhémar's cross. “And when they had seen this cross, even the count's closest friends became so keyed up about the pilgrimage that they set their tents on fire, over the objections of the count and the other princes.” Like the destruction of the walls of Ma‘arra, it was a powerful symbolic statement. The Provençal nobles and commoners alike wanted to go. When Raymond realized what was happening, he grew “disturbed to the point of tears, and he hated himself and his followers.” He still made some abortive efforts to divert the army to Tripoli, pleading with the princes and offering them
substantial bribes, but the crusade was moving on with or without him, prodded into action by the army's new visionary, Peter Desiderius, and by the disaffected followers of Peter Bartholomew.
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It was no longer Raymond's crusade. Nor was it Peter Bartholomew's. The millennial apocalypse had ended. The apocalypse of the Last Emperor was about to begin.