Crusade

As one wave of attackers exhausted itself, Sultan Arslan withdrew it to regroup and sent in fresh replacements. There was no such respite for our defensive wall, which, with the sun rising ever higher in the sky, had to endure the onslaught without rest. Squads were organized to clear the dead and wounded, and young boys hurried forward with pails and ladles to allow the men to slake their thirst.

As our numbers dwindled, Edwin and I had been filling gaps in our defences for some time, until eventually Robert, Bohemond and Tacitius were also in the thick of the fray. The time for issuing orders had passed; even the most senior of us had to fight for our lives.

We had held our ground for over five hours. Old men, boys and the injured began to pick up weapons and join the defensive wall, while Estrith and Hereward led the women to clear the bodies and help the wounded. I looked along our lines; we were at breaking point. I wanted our Brethren to be together at the end and was trying to decide when would be the best time to send Edwin to bring Estrith and Hereward to stand with us in a final redoubt, when I saw a cloud of dust to the north.

Moments later, thousands of crimson Christian crosses painted the distant horizon the colour of the setting sun. As soon as the Turks realized that the advancing phalanx was the balance of the Christian army, they fled as rapidly as they had appeared.

Ten thousand bodies lay on the ground, both Christian and Muslim. Robert ordered that all be buried with dignity and that imams be brought from Nicaea to read over the graves of the Turks. Some among Bohemond’s contingent objected, preferring that they be left to rot like wild beasts where they had fallen, but such had been the quality of Robert’s leadership in the battle that he got his way.

For the Christian dead, eternal salvation beckoned. Prompted by the speeches of zealots such as Count Raymond, the notion that death on the Crusade would bring God’s forgiveness for all sins and a place at his side in Heaven had become accepted as gospel by the Crusaders.

Hereward went over to Robert and Bohemond to congratulate them on the way they had held the army together and inspired their men.

‘My Lord Duke, Count Bohemond, my congratulations on an outstanding example of leadership under the most demanding of circumstances.’

Bohemond responded with only a perfunctory nod and a very pointed question.

‘Captain, I hear that you served as a housecarl for King Harold of England and fought at Senlac Ridge.’

‘That is correct, my Lord.’

‘Did you ever know a man called Hereward of Bourne? He also fought at Senlac Ridge and before that was in service with my father, Robert Guiscard, and my uncle, Roger.’

‘All Englishmen have heard of Hereward of Bourne, sire.’

‘In his service to my family he was called Sir Hereward Great Axe. He carried a double-headed axe like yours — so formidable, I was told, that no other man could wield it. I was a very small boy when he and his companions left Apulia for Normandy, but the stories about him lingered and are still told to this day. My hazy memory is of a man who bore a strong resemblance to you; indeed, you would be about the same age.’

It was obvious that Bohemond strongly suspected that Hereward and Alexius’s retired Captain of the Varangians, Godwin of Ely, were one and the same.

Nevertheless, Hereward kept up the pretence.

‘My Lord, I am flattered to be likened to one as noble as Hereward of Bourne. But that’s all it is — a likeness.’

‘May I try your axe? It intrigues me.’

‘Of course, sire.’

Bohemond stood almost six inches taller than Hereward — both dwarfing me, and especially the diminutive Robert — and had the same substantial frame, but he lacked the strength that Hereward had in his tree-like limbs and he struggled to keep swinging the axe freely.

Hereward grasped the axe from the Norman’s faltering grip.

‘It has killed many foes, some even as big as you.’

He took the Great Axe of Goteborg and, with an easy, single-handed swing, rested the haft of the axe over his shoulder, then walked away. As he did so, he winked at Robert and me.

How many times in his life had the gargantuan Bohemond, a colossal figure from a legendary family, been made to look feeble?

28. Wastes of Anatolia

Invigorated by our victory, we set a course south-east, across the arid plains of central Anatolia. For those of us who had survived so far, there was much envy of our dead comrades who basked in Heaven, for we endured a living Hell.

All the locals we passed, cowering in their dark hovels and cool caves, looked at us in amazement as we staggered and stumbled in the scorching heat. They thought us mad, and so we were. Qilich Arslan had destroyed every village, killed every beast and poisoned every well on our route and for miles around. We had gone beyond the reach of the Emperor’s supply lines. We were on our own.