Soldier of Crusade (11 page)

Bohemund was aware of the way the lines of Godfrey of Bouillon were also becoming ragged as horsemen either failed to control their excited mounts or were in fact edging them forward to seek to persuade their leader to order the charge, which doubled the pleasure when he looked at his own lances, who showed no sign of becoming disordered.

Tancred was watching his uncle and he could guess for what he was waiting: those archers had not withdrawn and with Arslan’s foot soldiers pressing their attack as near as they could to the city that left an area into which their commander could lead them to seek to take the foot defence in flank. They could not be unaware of the mounted lances to their left, but if the Turks could get in amongst the men under Toulouse and Baldwin that would render any disciplined attack impossible; to get to the archers the Crusader lances would have to plough through their own men.

The mounted archers had reformed and were returning to the battle. On they came and now they knew the ditch was there and its depth, so they crossed it before forming up to attack, and it was soon obvious as they rode forward, fired and wheeled away that they were doing more execution than in their previous attempt. Not that the defence faltered; if a man fell another moved quickly into his place. Looking at the mounted Lotharingians it was clear that Godfrey was losing cohesion and he being no fool ordered his men to move forward before that became too hard to control.

Tancred’s eyes were on Bohemund, who studiously looked straight ahead as de Bouillon moved into a canter, riding across the Norman front kicking up great clods of earth and clouds of dust. Then with a yell and a drop of his yellow banner, crossed with a red bar, Godfrey ordered his men to charge, lance points dropping as they careered into the Turkish archers, who were busy loosing off arrows to impede their effort.

Yet they were adaptable in their fighting ability, these mounted Turks, for as soon as it became obvious that archery would not serve them they shouldered their bows and unsheathed their hooked swords, to ride forward and slash at the Lotharingian lance points. In no time the two forces were so intermingled that it was impossible to tell one from the other.

‘Sound the horn to advance,’ Bohemund shouted, signalling Tancred with a wave.

If it was an order to stir it was not an instruction to act alone. As Bohemund moved, his familia knights at his side, he and they set the pace of the horses that followed and with his sword held out at right angles, an act copied by Tancred, it was obvious that he had no intention of joining the embattled Godfrey of Bouillon. Egging his
mount into a trot the Norman line rode right across the rear of the battle going on and only when past it did the order come to wheel north.

It was difficult to see what they were about to attack, so dense was the dust, but it soon became clear to those caught in the cloud what was coming their way, a line of dipped lances at a trot and in near perfect order. Another dig of the spurs had Bohemund’s horse accelerate, a hard tug on the reins keeping that to a canter and it was only in the few paces before contact that he and his knights dropped back and the men behind him opened to admit them to form a single line.

Even if the enemy had been formed up to defend themselves they would have struggled to contain what hit them. In unison, they felt the effect of sharp metal points backed by the weight of men and beasts, the humans trained to a superior standard, the latter schooled to ignore the cries and waving weapons they faced. The enemy were not in good order, most of their fellow Turks were still fighting with Baldwin and Toulouse, so the Normans had taken them in flank, driving them back towards Lake Askanian so they would have no way to retreat.

Now in amongst the enemy, and with lances already embedded in the primary victims, it was time for swords and axes to be employed and in this Bohemund excelled. With his height and reach he did more execution than anyone, his great sword swinging to lop off heads or to strike an enemy body so hard as to progress right through to the vital organs, great founts of blood emerging from stricken bodies to fill the air with a red-mist spray.

With the pressure on their front diminishing, either Baldwin or Raymond ordered the horns blown to move from defence to attack,
at which point Bohemund put up his sword and shouted to the knight who acted as the horn blower, a man who always rode close to his banner. The notes rose into the air, a signal for Tancred to pay heed to his uncle, followed by a blown order to disengage. With a discipline no other mounted force in Christendom could even begin to emulate the Normans fell back in good order to reform, once more able to assemble in an unbroken line.

‘Tancred, take your conroys, wheel right and lead your men back into contact with Turkish foot. Be aware that our confrères are attacking and pushing them back.’

Given that was an instruction that needed to be passed on verbally it seemed an eternity before Tancred had detached the hundreds of lances under his command and led them further out onto the plain and mounted a second attack. Bohemund meanwhile had wheeled his conroys back to face west and the point from which they had set out, before them the still struggling mass of Turkish archers and Godfrey de Bouillon’s knights.

The fellow who commanded the archers must have seen what was coming at his rear, for as soon as the Normans moved there was a ripple through the Turkish ranks that told Bohemund they were preparing to flee, which made him come to a canter quicker than he had intended. He wanted to catch them before they could break up and get round him and he had the horn blown to order that his lances open out to present a lengthier barrier. That was when he saw the man in command waving as he wheeled expertly on his mount, obvious by his decorated helmet, yelling for his archers to abandon the fight and flee.

There was no need for close discipline now and that he communicated to his men by the way he spurred his own destrier
forward. The mount, if nowhere near blown, was not as fresh as at the first assault and anyway had never been bred for speed. Had it not been that the man Bohemund had set his mind on to engage spent too long about his business, they would never have met, but they did and close to. The Norman could see the pockmarked skin on a dark face, covered in dust, and the cold black eyes as he swung his sword.

The Turk’s weapon came up to parry and as the blades connected he used the weight of Bohemund’s blow to help him to wheel his lightweight mount in a way that no destrier could match. As he did so his blade swung low, seeking to cut into Bohemund’s side, an act only stopped by the swift drop of the Norman pommel. The Turk felt that and the pressure on his blade took him down, he a fighter good enough to guess what was coming. He kept going forward so that the Norman weapon swished within a hair’s breadth of his ducking head.

Again with outstanding horsemanship he spun his mount within less than its own length and if Bohemund had not spurred forward he would have been pierced instead of the flank of his horse, which, even well trained as it was, bucked as it felt the sword slice its flesh. The Turk had drawn back his sword to sweep it into the back of his giant adversary, but if he was a good horseman so was his opponent. With nothing but the pressure of his knees Bohemund forced his destrier round at the same time as the huge blade sliced down and across, taking the Turk at the joint of neck and shoulder and completely removing his head with such force that it flew several cubits away.

All around the mounted Turks were either fighting to get clear or in flight. Many of their foot-bound companions were being pushed back towards the lake by Tancred, while still having to seek to contain the advancing levies of Baldwin and Toulouse, this while the freed lances of Godfrey of Bouillon were streaming in to join the fight, and that
combination broke all resistance, with many throwing away their weapons and pleading for succour.

What followed was great slaughter; soldiers who had walked on the bones of the People’s Crusade were in no mood for mercy. Those who were not fleet of foot enough to get clear or who could not jump in the lake and swim were cut to pieces, while many drowned rather than face the blade. As for leadership, a glance to the east showed that Kilij Arslan and his personal body of defenders were fleeing under his streaming banner, with, it appeared, a very large portion of his army on his heels.

Bohemund rode back and leaning down used his sword point to lift the head he had severed, still with its decorated helmet strapped on, holding it up so all could see, at which point Tacitus rode forward, having taken no part in the battle judging by the lack of a mark on his armour. Looking up at the head, dripping blood down an already stained blade, the
Prōstratōr
smiled.

‘That is the head of Elchanes, Count Bohemund, Arslan’s best general and the man who led the massacre at Civetot.’

Looking up at the pockmarked skin, with the lips pulled back in a rictus of death, Bohemund replied, ‘Then it will be fitting meat for the dogs.’

E
xpecting in the aftermath of the victory to meet an ebullient Bohemund, Tancred was surprised by his gloomy demeanour. ‘Baldwin and Toulouse behaved well, but de Bouillon’s lances will not serve as they are if we meet a better enemy. He could not hold them back.’

‘They did great slaughter.’

‘And would have done more if they had stayed their attack. Our aim should have been not just to defeat Arslan but also to destroy him and perhaps even take him prisoner. That was possible if we Normans had been allowed to pin their horsemen and Godfrey had done what I had in mind he should, get behind the enemy and cut off any chance of retreat.’

‘I do not recall you telling him that.’

‘No, and you know why – I must be careful of the pride of others.’

‘Just as they must have a care with you.’

‘If they take their behaviour from you, then they will fail.’ Seeing that his intended jest had been taken badly, Bohemund added something to mollify his nephew. ‘In truth, Tancred, they could call me a goat if they fought as I would have them do.’

‘Demand the command.’

‘It would be futile, and even a mere hint would sow division where we need harmony.’ Looking at the walls of Nicaea Bohemund produced a sigh. ‘With Kilij Arslan in our hands, even dead, we might have no need to continue the siege. As it is …’

Both men fell into silence, watching the cadavers of the dead being stripped and mutilated, while those bodies floating on the lake were being used as target practice, men employing captured bows and the surfeit of spent arrows. It was testimony to the ability of the Turks who had owned them that so many were having trouble even drawing them properly, never mind loosing an arrow that found a target.

‘Come, Tancred, there will be a feast and much rejoicing. Stay by me and if, in my cups, I look like telling the other princes of the opportunity we missed, I give you leave to buffet me round the ears.’

Tancred grinned. ‘Lay a hand on you when you’re drunk? Just what kind of fool do you think I am?’

The skins of wine were opened for all from high to low and soon severed Turkish heads were being displayed on lances, shown to the walls by the drunken revellers, some of the Lotharingians even taking to wearing them as trophies on their belts. Later, the newly constructed mangonels were employed to send a steady stream of bloody skulls over the battlements; bodies were tried but they generally splattered on the walls rather than carrying the parapet. All this was designed to depress the defenders who had, the next day, an even less cheering
sight to trouble them, the rising shape of the great siege tower upon which work had recommenced.

Having restrained Tancred before, his uncle knew it was now time to assess the resolve of the garrison, to see what kind of resistance they could mount, that being the only true way to test their morale after the flight of their Sultan. Each contingent agreed to take turns with ladders and grappling hooks to launch an assault and try and get onto the parapet. This would require that they prepare in the dark, with good cloud cover to mask the moon, and get close before first light; at any other time of day the defenders would see them coming, allowing them to reinforce the point of attack.

Bishop Adémar was adamant that none of the commanders should risk themselves in such an enterprise, not, he stressed, through any lack of personal ability or courage – the nature of the task they were set upon precluded taking such a risk and the cleric was relieved when the sense of such a proposal was accepted. Vermandois apart, the princes were men with a firm grasp of what they faced in the future once Nicaea had fallen: twelve hundred
mille passum
of harsh territory, to be crossed in summer heat, over mountains and rivers, with enemies to fight on the way and very likely more great cities to besiege. If they were curious regarding the spirits of the defenders they faced, they were even more concerned about the morale of their own men, which would not be aided by them seeing their talismanic leaders slain.

The Normans drew first attempt, which meant Robert of Salerno got to execute the wish he had expressed before the battle; Tancred, much to his chagrin, was forbidden by his uncle to take part. Robert showed good judgement in choosing for his party twenty men who were not of great bulk, but slim and likely to be quick on their feet; speed might serve the assault more readily than muscle.

Once more a priest blessed the men, this time by torchlight, well out of view of the walls, and once confessed they lifted their equipment, four long ladders, and moved to get into position, not easy in the dark. Their leaders followed to observe and control the reserve, dozens of knights bearing, as well as swords and axes, a clutch of sharp, lightweight javelins. These men would follow in the wake of the lead party if they looked like achieving success. Behind them came
milities
carrying bolts of canvas. If Robert suffered a reverse the javelins would be used to seek to keep the defenders at bay until their confrères got clear, while the canvas would be spread and held taut to try and catch any falling fighter.

With the double ditch around the walls they needed to traverse one without being seen and use the land between to anchor the foot of their ladders. Robert had decided to use planks as well, the siege lines were littered with them, his intention to lay the ladders flat across the first ditch and use the planks to make a bridge by which to cross. Tiny strips of white cloth had been tied on the edges, visible to avoid them falling off.

Rough-hewn, made up of freshly cut wood full of sap, lashed with bark strapping and needing to be long enough to not only reach but also breast the battlements, the ladders were heavy. Robert’s plan was to have them up and in position to drop on the walls as soon as the sun tinged the rim of the eastern hills, his fighters beginning to climb before it crested them. With men anchoring the foot, to get them up took real effort, to hold them steady so they did not fall against the stonework even harder, and it all had to be carried out without a sound.

Well back and looking at the same eastern skyline, both Bohemund and Tancred suffered from the anxiety common in such endeavours.
They were with their men in spirit, having undertaken many times what they were set to do, the last occasion at the siege of Amalfi. In the time of waiting their quiet conversation went back to that siege, to Roger
Borsa
and what a poor specimen of a ruler he was, Bohemund of the opinion that the duchy might well fall apart under his hand.

‘He has a son now, remember.’

‘Two years of age.’

‘Still an heir.’

‘Then the boy must be better than his sire,’ Bohemund hissed, ‘for I doubt he has the seed to produce more.’

Tancred could not avoid the thought: what will you do if he is not strong or your half-brother dies when he is an infant? It was almost as if Bohemund could read his mind.

‘No doubt my Uncle Roger will take up cudgels for the son in the same way he has for the father.’

‘Even if he is weak?’

‘Roger too has sons now and I daresay he is as ambitious for them as you and I would be for our own.’

‘For that we would both need a wife.’

‘When I have what I feel I need is the time to consider a wife.’

That touched on a subject rarely raised; Tancred was young and if he was unmarried that was hardly surprising, but Bohemund would soon pass into his fourth decade. Many Norman and Lombard lords of Southern Italy had made suggestions to him regarding their daughters, all had been politely rebuffed and only intimates like Tancred were permitted to know why. When Bohemund came to wed, he was determined that the standing of his bride should reflect his own, and to his mind that was yet to reach its peak.

‘I see a tinge of light,’ Tancred hissed.

‘Lord, I would rather be where our Lombard Robert is now than just being a spectator.’

Ahead of them and invisible, Robert’s party were standing at the base of the raised ladders, hoping the tops, which had been tarred with pitch to blacken them, did not catch a sentry’s eye. To keep them absolutely still was impossible; they were waving about, not much, but it was movement and thus dangerous. On a warm night and clad in chain mail they were sweating, no doubt like their leader thinking that an eternity had passed since they got to this point. That was when they heard his voice, for from behind him a slim line of grey had appeared in the eastern sky.

‘Drop them slowly, try not to strike hard on the walls.’

One voice spoke in Norman French, but quietly and it was not identifiable. ‘You need the Holy Ghost for that, Lombard, not us.’

There was no doubting when they did come to rest, aching arms were eased of the burden and no commands were required to get the first fighter to begin to ascend. Swords unsheathed and axes to hand they began to climb, Robert of Salerno in the lead, he like his men waiting for that shout which would mean their attempt had been exposed. Halfway up, Robert was beginning to believe they might get onto the parapet undiscovered, but that was dashed by the sound of a horn, which had men who had been climbing slowly and silently look instead for as much speed as they could muster.

In a part of the world where the sun rises fast, the outline of Robert, upright on the battlements, yelling and encouraging his followers, raised the spirits of all those watching. He had achieved enough of an advantage to not be immediately engaged and that held until half of his fighters could join him, which allowed them to fan out, though the first clash of metal on metal soon followed, this accompanied by the
cries common in all combat: indistinct imprecations mixed with the odd shriek as a weapon struck home – frustrating for those watching, because while they could see their own, the defenders were hidden behind the crenellated walls.

‘They are fighting hard,’ said Tancred after a short while, time in which it was light enough to see clearly.

Bohemund knew he did not mean those attacking with Robert but the Turks of Nicaea; resistance seemed to be hardening, which could mean the original defenders were being reinforced.

‘Move the javelins forward and get them ready, but caution them against being too eager or they will smite their own.’

All along the battlements the mail-clad Apulians were swinging weapons to both seek to maim their opponents and to parry the pikes thrust at them, but they seemed unable to achieve the prime objective, which was to get down off that higher elevation, onto the rear parapet and seek to secure a proper and defensible foothold. That would allow those waiting below to join them; get enough fighters up there and they could push back the Turks from their own walls and they could then seek to take one of the towers. That was not happening, and much as he was anxious, Bohemund declined to shout any instructions; another was in command up above and any decision was his.

It was not long in coming and Robert’s signal was plain to everyone below, his shout to his fellow fighters, which implied they were outnumbered and in danger of defeat or death if they stayed. They were still in peril of such a fate in withdrawal, which was the hardest part of this type of action to execute. The line of battling knights began to collapse in upon itself, those at the rim now swinging weapons to hold back their assailants rather than wound them, while their confrères made for the ladders.

For those first to depart, the descent was achieved by first abandoning whatever weapon they were carrying – that was thrown into the ditch for later retrieval – then sliding down, feet clamped to the outer uprights, most of the weight of their bodies dependant on fast-changing hand holds, while below them and to the side the
milities
had spread their canvas, leaning back to stretch it in case they lost their grip.

The numbers were down to the last half-dozen, which compacted the area of fighting, so Bohemund ordered those carrying javelins to begin to loose them at the outer edge in the hope of creating a firewall by intimidation, for such weapons would not wound deeply, praying that what was a common problem would occur now: as defenders, assumed to be more numerous, pressed to get at the last of the attackers they achieved a diminishing return by being compacted into a crowded space, each getting in the others’ way as they tried to achieve a kill.

Someone managed to get through the battlement defence; the fighter next to Robert of Salerno suddenly bent over and began to fall, his sword flying out of his hand, the weapon that had pierced him only becoming visible when his body spun full circle, the long pike detaching itself from his flesh by its own weight.

Shuffling, craning
milities
moved quickly to catch him and as soon as he thudded into their canvas they rolled the body out onto the ground, resuming their vigil, leaving him to be lifted and borne away by the men with whom he had fought. As he passed Bohemund, the Count looked down in what was now full daylight to see the wound, a great gash pumping blood, and that brought to his lips a prayer; the fellow looked set for the ministrations of the priest not the mendicant monk.

The point at which Robert of Salerno threw his axe at the defenders marked the end – he was the last to take flight – an act that got him just enough time to get a foot on the ladder. Now it was the Turks who were clambering onto the battlements, one of whom took a great swipe at Robert’s head that only missed by a whisker. Unfortunately for the Turk, the effort, when he was off balance, worked against him and with a scream of panic he began to tumble, his scrabbling attempt to arrest his fall useless.

Tancred yelled to the
milities
to catch him – he could be a valuable prisoner – but either they failed to hear or ignored him and the falling body careered into the ground with an audible thud to lie there twitching. One of the just descended knights kicked him several times until he rolled into the ditch.

Robert, in company with the last quartet of his fighters, was several rungs down when Turkish pikes were employed to try and push the ladder tops away from the wall. This time their weight, added to that of the men still near the top, made such a thing difficult, too much for one man. It was a task requiring many hands and that was not achieved until the sliding knights were well past the fulcrum, but they could feel the way the ladders were going vertical and the point would soon be reached where they would pass that and fall.