Now the killing began in earnest. The Army of God secured other gates before spreading like a turbulent river through the streets and across the squares. Turks, men, women and children, rushed out into the night only to be cut down until the paved areas looked like a bloody carpet. Horrible screams and heart-chilling yells broke the night, ringing out above the clash of steel and the thud of axe against wood. Bridge Gate was seized and pulled apart. Raymond of Toulouse and his Provençals poured in like a pack of ferocious wolves, fanning out down streets and alleyways. The army had rotted outside in the wind, rain and boiling heat. They’d eaten leaves and roots and drank water so muddy it stuck to their throats. Now, God’s Day, the Day of Anger, the Day of Vengeance, had arrived. Blood would cleanse and purify the hardships they had endured. Antioch was to be put to the sword.
The Franks burst into mosques, expecting to discover all sorts of abominations, only to find peace and quiet, the sweet smell of candles and dawn’s first light pouring through the fretted windows of coloured glass. The beauty of these places of prayer was savagely shattered. No mercy was shown to the imams and holy men turned devoutly towards Mecca; these met their death bravely enough as the prayer carpets on which they knelt became soaked in blood. The Franks stormed the palaces searching for gold, silver and precious stones. They looted hangings, tapestries, coverlets and cloths, wandering back into the streets dressed in their plundered finery. They smashed cabinets, coffers and chests. They seized women of the harem, beautiful Armenians and Circassians, violating them cruelly on the luxurious cushions and beautiful embroidered divans. Pale-skinned Greeks chanted prayers, made the sign of the cross and showed the crucifix in the hope of mercy at the hand of these killers sweeping through Antioch, their long swords cutting off life like the wind snuffs out a candle.
Turks were trapped and tortured; their stomachs ripped open, their entrails pulled out so that they could be burned or led around like dogs until they collapsed. The garrison retreated into the security of the citadel, where they displayed their green and white banners and waited for help. Bohemond immediately attacked the citadel, now commanded by one of Yaghi Siyan’s sons, until an arrow took him in the leg and forced him to withdraw. Yaghi Siyan himself panicked and fled; drunk and frightened, he kept falling from his horse until his escort, desperate to flee, left him on the ground. An Armenian butcher came across the fallen ruler of Antioch, hacked off his head and took this and Yaghi Siyan’s armour and harness to Bohemond for a reward.
Eleanor learnt all this as she sheltered in the Twin Sisters tower, exhausted and depleted. Theodore came to feed her, and Hugh and Godefroi returned, but Eleanor just sat, sprawled on cushions, staring into the distance. She quietly confessed to Theodore that she wanted to go home. He put it down to the tension she’d endured before the city fell. Eleanor, beside herself, just retreated deeper into the darkness of the tower, whilst outside the bloodshed gradually subsided. On 4 June, however, she was roused by Theodore, who breathlessly informed her that Turkish outriders and scouts had appeared in the foothills to the north of Antioch whilst those still holding the citadel had hoisted the black banner of war and threatened to push down into the city.
‘You must come,’ Theodore insisted. He hurriedly forced Eleanor to dress, collected her few possessions and pushed her through the door, down the steps and out of the tower. Hurrying along the dusty trackway, he warned her what to expect. They entered a city of the damned. Corpses still littered the streets. The white walls of houses and other buildings were now crimson with blood. The stench of corruption spread everywhere, polluting the air and sickening the stomach. Adhémar of Le Puy was doing his best to collect corpses in the squares and marketplaces; huge funeral pyres roared, their acrid black plumes blossoming like something evil against the white-blue sky. A new plundering was now taking place. The Army of God was locked in Antioch and there was little food to be had. Already Bohemond and other leaders, banners unfurled, were riding through the street, heralds scurrying before them, summoning men back to the standards. Eleanor felt as if she was crossing the wastelands of hell. Fires burned. Black smoke curled everywhere. Corpses, bloated and rotting, blocked her way. Only Theodore’s arm around her shoulder provided protection against the feeling of utter hopelessness that hovered to engulf her, a night of gathering blackness that threatened to sweep her soul. One thought dominated her senses: Firuz! She did not know what had happened to him. Yet his personal pain was the cause of all this. He had been betrayed by Asmaja so he, in turn, had betrayed all. Yet, if he hadn’t, what would have been the fate of Hugh, Godefroi and the rest? Was that life, she wondered, one door of betrayal leading to another? The priests preached hell; Eleanor felt as if she was buried there already. Was there salvation, or were she and the rest, Armenian, Greek and Turk, already judged and experiencing the horrors of eternal punishment? Eleanor babbled such thoughts as she was placed in the bedchamber of a Turkish merchant, its owner dead or fled. A leech was summoned who force-fed her a bitter-tasting drink that plunged her into a sweat-soaked sleep.
Over the next few days Eleanor, breaking through fitful dreams, became more aware of the gathering storm around the Army of God. Khebogha had arrived with an army, a moving mass of at least seventy thousand men against a Frankish force now reduced to thirty thousand, starving, still bereft of armour, horses, food and drink. The city was invested. A conflict, bloody and violent, began in earnest. The Mahomeri tower, the Castle of the Blessed Virgin, held by Robert of Flanders, was besieged. The Turks brought up mangonels and catapults to rain down sharpened death. Robert of Flanders burnt the castle and withdrew through Bridge Gate. Meanwhile, in the city, the Turks holding the citadel went on the attack, launching fierce assaults. Bohemond organised the defence along a ridge opposite the citadel. Nevertheless a constant rain, a mass of missiles, arrows and stones, fell on the Army of God. Fighting lasted from dawn to dusk, so those who had bread did not have time to eat it and those who had water were not able to drink. Courage and chivalry were not lacking. Robert of Barneville, with fifteen knights, charged a Turkish troops of horse only to be ambushed by even more. Robert turned, trying to flee back into the city, but his body was pierced by an arrow, his horse struck from under him. He was killed by a spear thrust through his head, which was later cut off and hoisted on a lance to taunt those watching on the battlements.
Bohemond emerged as the leader. He concentrated on the citadel, flying his blood-red banner, bandaging his wounded leg and driving back the Turks. He also fired the houses around, and the flames, whipped up by storm winds, ravaged the city but also drove out the Frankish deserters, whom Bohemond and his captains immediately marshalled against the enemy. Inside Antioch, Adhémar continued the grim task of cleaning the streets and burning the corpses. Chruches were reopened and consecrated. The ancient patriarch, found hiding, was restored to his office. The Army of God still hoped for help from Emperor Alexius, but this hope was cruelly dashed. The stream of deserters grew; even Stephen of Blois and other leaders joined the ‘rope-sliders’, those who clambered down the walls of Antioch at night, evaded the Turkish patrols and fled to spread the widening tale of woe. They reached the port of St Simeon and warned off the sailors there. The Turks attacked the port and burned what was left, killing anyone unable to leave. Alexius also retreated, believing the Army of God, trapped in Antioch, would be annihilated, a conclusion even the Franks now faced. The outer forts were burned and abandoned, and the army fell back into Antioch, confronting a force over twice their number. Yet worse was to follow.