Marrat fell victim to general sack and pillage. No quarter was given. To walk the streets was to tread on a carpet of corpses. The Turks fled to caves beneath the ground but the Franks pursued them, pouring in sulphur and fire to kill them before going down themselves to search for any plunder. The Turks fought desperately, some even committing suicide rather than surrender. Marrat fell, and as Peter Bartholomew trumpeted, ‘What a fall!’ Once again the Frankish leaders met to quarrel over who owned what. Meanwhile the rest of the army were reduced to desperate means as food supplies swiftly disappeared. The corpses of Turks had been ripped open to search for coins and gems they might have swallowed. Now rumours were rife that some Franks, tormented by the madness of starvation, were cutting pieces of flesh from the buttocks of these dead Turks which they cooked and ate, even devouring them in their frenzy before they were sufficiently roasted. Other rumours claimed that Turkish corpses, dumped in the nearby swamps, were being dragged out in order to satisfy the excruciating pangs of hunger. Yet still the leaders quarrelled. Eleanor, Simeon and Theodore survived on strips of tough goat flesh and thick soups concocted from various plants and seeds, whilst Hugh and Godefroi led out foraging parties though with little success.
On the Feast of the Epiphany 1099, Hugh showed his hand openly. Through his brethren, as he now called them, he organised a general assembly. The Army of God massed before the gates of Marrat surrounded by a ring of flaming bonfires. For an hour Hugh, his voice strident, harangued them, arguing that they should leave Marrat immediately for Jerusalem. The Bishop of Orange had recently died, and if there were no other leaders, he, Hugh de Payens, would take them south. However, he still wished their leaders to accompany them. If there was no Marrat, there would be no quarrelling, so they must destroy the city. The rank and file roared their approval and went on an orgy of destruction. Houses, mosques and temples were fired. The walls were weakened, the defences razed. Count Raymond hurried from his quarters to see the effects of such destruction. He had, at least publicly, a change of heart. Marrat, he promised, would be devastated and left deserted, whilst he, barefoot, clad only in a pilgrim’s gown, would lead them south to Jerusalem.
Part 9
Arqa: The Feast of St Godric, 21 May 1099
Fulget crucis mysterium.
(The mystery of the cross blazes forth.)
Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’
‘I have loved O Lord the beauty of thy house and the place where thy glory dwelleth.’ The Army of God sang these verses as they poured down the hill past crumbling buildings towards the land of Christ’s birth. The Christians of the locality, stirred up by Syrian monks from their small monastery around the Church of the Virgin, snatched up crucifixes and Ave beads to greet them. The Franks camped in a village only a few miles from Arqa. The army, now about twenty thousand souls, were jubilant, none more so, Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, than Hugh and Godefroi, who, once again, had forced the great lords to act. The Portal of the Temple, the leaders of the Jerusalemites, were now a power in the land. Jerusalem had to be taken swiftly. The Holy City had recently been seized by a new force dispatched by the Caliph of Cairo, the leader of the Fatimid sect of the Turks. He had sent his troops across Sinai to occupy Jerusalem, but the Army of God did not care. The Turks, whatever their name or origin, would be defeated. Jerusalem would be taken. They had to march swiftly. Now was the season when they could snatch crops from the ground, grain from the fields before the sun grew too hot and the earth became parched. Now was the time to march. Thousands of them had left Marrat, following the coast road. They went on foot, spears and packs on their shoulders, without baggage or carts; behind them trailed loaded camels and ox carts, but such things were not important. Jerusalem was their prize.
The hope of a swift march on the Holy City had been cherished by all when they left Marrat in February. At first Count Raymond and the other leaders seemed to have learned their lesson. Heaven now smiled on their venture. They entered southern Syria, part of ancient Canaan so the wise ones claimed, a land flowing with milk and honey especially during springtime. A countryside of deep purple hills and rolling grasslands, cut by ochre-coloured ploughland. Squat whitewashed cottages, with canvas and matting across their doorways and windows, nestled amongst black basalt rocks covered with golden-brown lichen. A land richly endowed with the plump silver-grey olive, shady tamarisk, blooming oleander, juniper and wild myrtle. Flowers of vivid hue caught the eye. Cloud shadows raced across the countryside where lavender-coloured rocks gave way to beds of primroses. Cool, fresh breezes ruffled the lush grass and brought the fragrance of cedar groves and dark pine, which also provided good shelter against the sun. At night the moon shone the pure yellow of primrose. At daybreak the sky became a festival of fast-changing colours. A rich land where cattle, sheep and goat browsed as thick as bees. A strange land too, dotted with ghost cities, ruins from ancient times, their crumbling walls and vaulting gateways still guarded by evil-looking creatures carved out of stone. As they travelled further south, the Franks glimpsed the distant cap of the Mountain of Snow and stared wonderingly up at the lowering blue skies against which stretched the black stems of palm trees with their fan-like branches. Streams, springs and wells gushed in abundance. Water wheels clacked and the sweet smoke of cooking fires, rather than the acrid fumes of burning homes, teased nostrils and throats already pleased by the fragrance of acacia and azalea.
The inhabitants were friendly, eager to trade; many of them were Syrian Christians belonging to strange covens such as the Copts or Maronites. The news of the Army of God’s great victories, the deeds of these ferocious iron men had preceded them; word of the defeats of Ridwan, Yaghi Siyan and Khebogha swept before the Army of God like a herald. Hugh, now speaking as vox populi, urged Count Raymond to treat with local rulers and show benevolence to all. Such diplomacy worked: the Emir of Shazir greeted them amicably, as did the ruler of Homs. On the Feast of the Purification of Mary, the army occupied the deserted town of Raphania, with its gardens full of vegetables and houses crammed with provisions. They rested there and took council. They could journey inland and lay siege to the sprawling city of Damascus, or continue to strike south-west along the coast. Hugh persuaded Count Raymond to adopt the latter course, arguing that the coastal route was easier, and they would also be able to maintain closer communication with cogs bearing provisions, which would accompany them on their march. Where possible, Hugh insisted, they must avoid battle and hardship. Count Raymond agreed. The Army of God marched down the coast of the Middle Sea. They faced some opposition. Turkish patrols from various isolated fortresses attacked the stragglers until the Portal of the Temple took action. They withdrew from the order of march and hid, watching the stragglers of the army go limping by. The Turks attacked, only to be furiously ambushed by Hugh’s brotherhood, who circled them and utterly annihilated them.