Standing orders to those who masked the St George’s Gate already had them hurrying south to the lower bridge that crossed the Orontes and they would come upon the rear of the Latins, while boats had been provided for the men camped outside the St Paul’s Gate and along the inland riverbank so they could reinforce the men who, originally driven back, had been camped opposite the Bridge Gate. The latter, with more men coming to their aid, would not falter, so he had time to think on the best way to react, for if an immediate frontal advance was the most obvious, it was not the sole option.
‘I sense,’ he said finally, without lifting his head, ‘that you are eager to rush into battle.’
That got a low murmur of agreement.
‘I have years on all of you, and experience too. We are in no peril, my good fellows.’ The call to prayer began to echo through the camp, and that made Kerbogha smile, for the imams would show no concern for anything other than the souls of their flock. ‘Let us say our prayers and then we may have guidance as to how to react.’
In truth the Atabeg of Mosul had concerns, even if they were slight, given the relative numbers: his force was a heterogeneous one, made up of so many tribes and different religious affiliations, albeit they were all Muslims. He had caution about exposing them too quickly to battle. On the way to Antioch he had besieged Edessa and what he had seen there did not fill him with confidence as to how they would perform, added to which this was a host that had never engaged in open combat, an arena so much more open to malign chance than a siege. It was why he had used his Turks as the main weapon — they were fierce warriors by nature and could be relied on to fight well.
Would the Crusaders, upon sight of the whole host moving up, merely fade back behind their walls? Would they hold out against the forces already engaged and at this very moment being substantially reinforced? It was paramount to Kerbogha that this battle, even if it was forced upon him, should be the last fight over Antioch and wholly successful, added to which if there was any reputation to be gained from its fall, then it should be his and his alone, hence his standing instruction to the citadel and Shams ad-Dulauh, repeated by messenger, to stay within their walls.
‘My intention,’ he said, once prayers were over, ‘is to keep the Latins outside the walls and fighting. Our men are holding and will find it possible to continue to do so as their losses are replaced from the other side of the Orontes. We will march, but let some sand run through the glass before we do, for on sight of us our enemies will merely fade away and we will once more face their walls. I want them too weary to retreat with any speed, and even if they try I have issued orders so that they will find they have to fight just to get back to the gate.’
‘Victory will come anyway, My Lord Kerbogha,’ cried one of his senior commanders, a Persian and a reluctant ally. ‘They are starving and our men may die to no purpose.’
The face closed up, what had been a narrow forehead near to disappearing: Kerbogha was not a man who liked his actions or decisions to be questioned. ‘You may die for want of respect.’
That was threat enough to silence the speaker and more than enough to make cautious the others present. Kerbogha’s black eyes swept the room and all dropped their heads enough to avoid contact with his glare. There was no need for him to speak: they would obey his commands whenever he chose to issue them.
‘Keep the host at readiness and I will give the order to march when I think the time is right.’
Standing on his slight mound, with the baking sun making both his helmet and his mail hard to bear, Bohemund was lost in confusion and racking his brain to think if there was some way Kerbogha could outmanoeuvre him. The Atabeg had to stay this side of the Orontes; he could not get at the Crusaders by any other means and if he tried a long flank march to the west it would take him time and could not be kept from being observed. In that event Bohemund would swing his line to face it, an option open to him in an interior position. As long as he held the Bridge Gate he held the ability to withdraw at will, not that he would order that unless the battle was well and truly lost.
Several times he had been obliged to send forward Tancred at the head of a strong party of Apulians to straighten a deep kink in the Christian line, and on one occasion he had withdrawn some of Vermandois’ men and replaced them to give them some respite, they having been fighting the longest. It was a mark of their ability and morale that they took this amiss and were keen to resume their place as soon as a lull in the fighting made this possible.
And pauses there were; for all their martial prowess, and the Turks could hold their head for valour with any Christian, no man could keep fighting at full tilt for several hours under a hot sun. Respite came when an enemy fell back to regroup, a slight suspension but enough to take on a drink of water, to mop the streaming sweat from their brows, to look their opponents in the eye before one or the other rushed forward to re-engage.
Yet such breathers happened in parts of the line not the whole, so the air was never free of the clash of weapons and the cries of men, either to give force to their efforts or to react to a painful blow, added to that endless loud pleas to saints or the paladins of the Muslim religion for succour and strength.
A careful eye was kept on the various banners, for it was important that they held steady. If the army of which Bohemund had been given temporary command was fighting for its life and its faith, it was those fellow magnates of his who could inspire their efforts by both their personal example and the ability they had to encourage by word and deed.
‘Lord Bohemund, the Turks from the St George’s Gate have crossed the river over the southern bridge and are coming up on our rear.’
That got a nod; one of the lesser gates and the furthest south, the numbers there had not been great, some five hundred men who could not defeat the Crusaders but could, by their actions and if their timing was right, cause serious problems, for they were as a body mounted on swift ponies. He looked over to the group of mounted French knights, part of those who had first exited the Bridge Gate under Vermandois, standing by their horses, holding their heads tight so they could not graze or drink too much: a horse with a full belly was of no use in a fight.
‘Who has Count Hugh left in command over there?’
‘Reinhard of Toul,’ Tancred replied, ‘in the service of France. Shall I call him to you?’
‘No,’ Bohemund replied with a smile, ‘it is only fitting I go to him. Keep your eye on our front, Tancred and act to provide support as you see fit.’
Reinhard pulled himself to his full height when Bohemund approached, for here was a fighter of legend. The Count of Taranto was a man with whom he had enjoyed little contact and he knew, because he had heard it spoken, of his liege lord’s less than sterling view of the Apulian, but since he did not much admire Count Hugh he discounted his opinion. Looking up and blinking at the sky — there was no choice with such a giant — he nodded as his instructions were relayed, based on the notion that Kerbogha would have given the commander at the southernmost gate certain instructions in the event of a full-blooded sortie from within the walls.
‘They will not attack us unless we are so pressed they have little fear of taking on a superior force. But if matters become critical they will try to cut off what they see as our line of retreat.’
‘Little do they know it is not one we will choose to take.’
Bohemund smiled at Reinhard then; here was a knight with no illusions about their fate should they fail and one who intended to die in battle, not as a slave.