Chapter Eleven ~ Ancyra

Count Raymond of Toulouse dispatched a number of knights to patrol the city in order to prevent looting. "This is the Emperor's fortress now," he urged. "It must stay as it is. He will not thank us for a sacked city."

Elisabeth and Albrecht were among those on policing duty. It was no easy task. The Lombards in particular would not heed the instructions. Throughout the city small bands could be seen taking goods of more portability than worth from shops, homes and even churches, or what had been churches before the Turks came. She found two men who were harassing a woman and her nubile daughter. Around the corner were several Lombard children lying in wait for an old Jew who tried to make his way unmolested through the quarter. Albrecht pointed to a trio of Austrian soldiers who toted a chest down the street as a frail old man chased after, pleading.

She tried to reason with them at first, but soon realized that only force would make an impact. She set her men-at-arms on the groups of looters and had them hauled away to meet harsh judgment. As she found she did not have the personnel to keep the pace up, she began to deal out the mortal justice herself. Finding a small troop of Frankish men-at-arms dragging hysterical women out of a gated house, some of them already being raped, she commanded her men to rush in and kill the men. She herself rode in, letting Gauner trample one, leaning to slice down on others.

In an encounter with Lombard peasants running out of a small mosque with its meager treasures, she picked out their leader and personally swung her sword to slice off his head. It became easier and easier the more resistance she got and the angrier it made her. After hardly being blooded in the battle against the Turks, she found her sword, horse, and self splattered with and covered with blood from her own countrymen, from other pilgrims.

Returning to the command where it was entrenched in a stone building, she discovered virtually all the others who were sent to quell the looting repeated her acts. A few more hardened and seasoned knights had taken no prisoners but simply hacked away at any trespassers on the people and goods of Ancyra. Her one unique act it seemed was when she had her men pull soldiers off a holy man they were beating to death.

Elisabeth kept to herself an encounter with two of Ranulf's mercenaries who were carrying hangings and other items from a house. They stopped when they saw her, noted the blood on her sword, and set the things down and bowed. Ragnar's quick grin assured her that he would not put her to the test. Not this time. Thomas stood and stared at her. She leveled a glare at both and gestured with her drawn and bloody sword. Ragnar gave her a quick and sardonic bow and he and Thomas left the goods where they lay and ran off.

Any hope she had of getting clean was dashed quickly. While Raymond and Stephen of Blois parlayed with the commander of the Emperor's own troops for the garrisoning of the what was again a Byzantine fortress, she and other knights found places in the courtyard and some in houses to bed down. No one seemed to have thought of how they would feed the pilgrims, and the more resourceful either co-opted cook shops and kitchens or simply moved in with residents and demanded to be fed. By the time she and the others who had policed the looting realized that the latter was happening, they were too tired and demoralized to lift a finger. She and Albrecht bedded down in the porch of the mosque she had protected, pieced together a brazier and cooked pigeons he had caught, plucked and cleaned.

"Ragnar told me what you did." Ranulf stood at her shoulder as she picked the meat out of her teeth with a snapped pigeon bone.

"You mean got in the way of their rampage?" she snapped ill naturedly.

Ranulf shook his head. "No, spared their lives. I thank you. If they know what is good for them they will do so as well." He looked about at the ruinous square. "I don't know what got into Thomas. He's not like that. Ragnar is a Viking at heart and is almost impossible to control."

She put her elbows on her bent knees. "I would invite you to have some food, but we ate it all."

"No matter," he said. "I got some grub earlier. And honestly," he added, holding up his hands, palms toward her, to ward off any impression to the contrary. "May I at least sit down for a while?"

She made no reply but slid over to make room for him. Albrecht sat on a lower step and watched them both. She reached for a water skin and offered it to the mercenary. "Only water. Sorry," she shrugged.

Sitting, Ranulf replied, "Better than the dust that's in my mouth and throat now." He took a swig, then glanced around at the mosque. "This looks like it was a church once. Any idea who it was dedicated to?"

Albrecht replied, "No. The place where it might have been carved was smashed with what must have been a hammer."

Elisabeth inserted, "What day is it? We could dedicate the church to whatever saint's day this is. Is it St. John's Day, midsummer?"

The mercenary thought for a few moments, his chin in his palm. "I think it is the twenty-third of June. That would make it St. Etheldreda's Day. The Franks say St. Audrey."

"How the hell did you know that?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Were you a priest at some point?"

He grinned back at her and winked. "Something like that. Let me think. What was she patron saint of?" He scratched his chin. "Oh, that's right. Appropriate enough. The throat." He lifted the wineskin and held it aloft. "Blessed be thee, St. Etheldreda, for quenching my thirst, both bodily and spiritually."

"Amen!" chorused the pilgrim knight and her squire.

After some companionable silence, Ranulf spoke. "Have you heard anything about what comes next?" His question was directed at Elisabeth, who sat with her forehead pressed onto her bent knees. He had noticed she was covered in blood.

She looked up and yawned. "I should go find Conrad and see what he says. I suppose we will continue north. Hope the next fortress falls as easily as this did."

He indicated her blood-soaked tabard. "That from the battle or the looters?"

"The looters. I didn't see all that much action in the battle. You?"

Ranulf shook his head. "It all happened so fast. My unit did not even move from our emplacement before we heard the shouts that the Turks surrendered the city." He looked at her from the side of his eye. "Aren't you looking forward to your first all-out battle?"

She laughed harshly. "I suppose at least then I will feel more like a pilgrim knight. But I have a good imagination. I don't think war is glorious. It isn't clean. It isn't merry."

"You don't know the half of it. There are two things about battle you never hear anyone describe. It's loud and it stinks. Even if you come away unwounded, your ears ring for days and you can't get the smell of blood, guts and shit out of your nostrils." He grimaced. "It's like a charnel house, only it's men, not cattle you are smelling." He stood slowly, stretching his back with the crackle of joints and a moan. "I should go see if my men are staying out of trouble." He saluted Elisabeth, winked at Albrecht and strode stiffly away.

Wrapped in her cloak on the hard stone of the mosque's porch, "St. Etheldreda's" she reminded herself to call it, Elisabeth discovered that she really could be tired enough to sleep on a cold, unyielding bed. Her thoughts went immediately to Maliha, but they were cut off in the middle of a memory of a kiss when she dropped off.

She awoke sore and stiff, and as she struggled to stand up, Albrecht brought her bread and wine. She swung her arms and pulled her knees up one after another to stretch them as she went into the alley they used to relieve themselves. She came back only slightly more limber. "The twenty-fourth of June, eh?"

Albrecht smiled. "Don't ask me whose saint day it is. I never paid any attention to that. Except for my own saint day."

"When is that?" she asked around a mouthful of bread she dipped in the wine.

He looked blank. "You know, I don't remember. Sometime when it is very cold."

"Elias and I had the same birthday, of course. The twentieth of July."

He looked interested. "So which did you get, St. Elias or St Elizabeth?"

She took a swallow of the wine, complete with dregs, and smiled. "Elias."

He laughed. "It was meant to be," he said in a mock portentous voice. "What was he patron saint of?"

"Twins," she said with no hesitation.

"Really?" he exclaimed. He knew by her snort she was jesting.

Elisabeth went in search of the Constable of the Holy Roman Empire after a quick visit to a fountain to try to wash off some of the blood. It came off the mail, but she knew water on mail was a bad idea. She hoped Albrecht had some oil for it. The blood was too well set into the cloth underneath to make much headway.

She found Conrad talking to several German knights and joined them when the Constable nodded in her direction. It seemed that someone had just asked him where the pilgrims would go next. "North, to Gangra."

"Is it a fortress? As heavily garrisoned as this one?" a knight asked and was applauded with laughter.

Conrad did not laugh, nor did he even smile. "Don't know. We have scouts out to see what they can find out. And foraging parties."

"Good. I think I could eat a camel." The laughter rewarded the man who said this as well. Nervous laughter.

"You may be lucky to get camel," the old commander said acerbically. "We will see when the forage parties get back. We will probably get through the rest of our own stores and all of the city's in a couple days."

As it came to pass, turning Ancyra over to the Emperor meant that his representatives would deny supplies to the pilgrims. If they had taken and kept it, they could have stripped the city of anything they needed or wanted, not only food and water but also weapons, horses, women, not to mention booty of a shinier kind. Instead Raymond stood with his arms limp at his sides, flabbergasted at Tsitsis’s support of the council now in charge of the city for Alexios.

"How do you expect us to go on without enough supplies?"

The Pecheneg commander studied him impassively. "You were not meant to take this city. You were meant to take Dorylaeum and Konya. There you could take what you wanted."

Stephen of Blois, red as blood in the face, shouted, "How are those cities any different from this one? They are in Seljuk hands."

"They would be in Byzantine hands had you not detoured from the path you promised the Emperor you would follow." Tzitas spun about and stalked away.

His one eye blazing, Saint Gilles scowled at the Archdeacon, who stood to one side listening to the discussion. "Are you happy now? We did as your people insisted, and now we are neck deep in shit."

Archdeacon Ludovico, the cleric who represented the Archbishop of Milan, who had not come with the pilgrims due to his illness, pursed his lips. "You ought to know what fighting in Paynim lands is like. It's not a holiday. It's war. Holy war."

Stephen eyed Raymond as he stomped to the cleric. "Is it Holy War we are here for or to save the arrogant arse of that bastard Bohemond?" he demanded, shaking his fist in the Archdeacon's face.

"It is not God's will that his knights should battle each other but the heathens."

Stephen took an impulsive step toward the Frankish knight, fearing he would strike the Archdeacon. The man seemed to have himself under control in a heartbeat.

Instead he snapped, "Are these the heathens we were sent here to eradicate from the Holy Land?"

Archdeacon Ludovico looked up and away as if dealing with a vexatious child. "What matter, if they are heathens. The Emperor . . . " he went on.

"The Emperor commanded us to go south."

"Almighty God requires that we go to the aid of our brother Bohemond." Ludovico pressed his thin lips tightly together to punctuate the point. He was going to argue no more.

"Oh for Christ's pitiful sake," Raymond muttered, then turned and left the chamber, Stephen close on his heels. Elisabeth, who had heard the exchange from the doorway through which they passed, was able to hear their continued exchange.

Stephen put a hand on Raymond's shoulder, flinching when Raymond threw it off. "North, then," the shorter man said. "How?"

The hero of the First Crusade glared at him. "We shall have to learn where the main road is."

Stephen's self-satisfied grin presaged his news. "I have a guide for us, Raymond."

Raymond stared down at him. "You do. Where did you find him?"

"He came to me and a couple of the others. He says he knows the path to take to regain the road to Gangra."

"And you believe him?"

Stephen was not happy with his leader's response. The least the man could do was trust him to know when he had good advice. "What can he do, one small man against our thousands?"

The Count of Toulouse opened and shut his fists at his sides. He frowned, considering. "All right," he finally said. "Let's see what the latest report is from the scouts. Then we'll decide."

Stephen smiled victoriously. "But of course. I have other news. . . . "

Raymond sighed. Talking to Stephen was like milking a goose. "And what is that, pray tell, Stephen?" He smiled unctuously.

"I know where we can get a little more in the way of supplies."

Raymond started to ask where and how it would be obtained, but decided the less he knew, the happier he would be. He bowed his head, his lower lip pressed out in thought. "Get it. And once we have the reports we'll make our final plans. If possible, we leave at dawn of the day after tomorrow."

Albrecht rolled his and Elisabeth's suits of chain mail in a shallow trough of sand mixed with oil. He looked up from where he worked when he heard Alain's greeting. "Where is Elias?"

The squire got to his feet and made a short bow. "My Lord Alain, he is with the Constable dealing with some issues with the horses."

Alain was annoyed. He was not in armor, and Albrecht noted a rent in his tunic and part of one of his shoes was torn at a seam and curled and flapped when he moved. "My lord, what happened?"

Alain glanced down at his clothes and shoes and frowned. "Blois had us fetching supplies from where it was hidden in a former mosque. The mullahs and their congregation did not take kindly to our removing it." He narrowed his eyes. "I did not realize I came to the Holy Land to fetch and carry."

"Why are they even still here?" Elisabeth's voice came from several feet away. "The Muslims, I mean."

"The Byzantines seemed more tolerant than I would have expected. Something stinks around here." Alain put out his hand to clasp hers. "What news?"

She walked over to the trough and nodded her approval of the cleaning Albrecht did on their mail. "Remarkable. I thank you." She looked back over at the Frankish knight. "We are on for tomorrow at dawn. It seems Stephen of Blois has a guide who will take us on a path that goes north to the main road. Somewhere between here and another fortress called Gangra. The scouts saw Turks up north, but they were just camped. Not that many, they said. We may have some trouble, but Conrad says it's nothing we can't handle."

Albrecht pulled Elisabeth's suit of chain mail out of the oily sand and started to brush it off, knocking clumps of sand onto the dirt of the square. The metal underneath shone unevenly. "I will scrub the dull parts with fleece until they shine."

"Will it be ready for the morning?" she asked.

"Of course, my lord."

Alain put in, "I will be glad not to be cooped up in this sorry excuse for a town." He looked at Elisabeth sharply, but with a grin. "Black Beast tells me he pulled your arse out of the fire the other day."

Elisabeth laughed. "You could say that. And you would be right. I Was nearly spitted and roasted. What about you? Did you see any action?"

Alain shook his head ruefully. "When we got to the fight it was all over. You did get a couple kills, he said. But no prize."

She laughed. "No indeed. The pike man was on me before I could take anything. Too bad, too, as I hoped to sell it here in Ancyra and send the money back to Maliha."

Alain stared at her. "Why would you do that, mon ami?" he asked, clearly puzzled.

She looked back at him and realized there was nothing she could say that would make a dot of sense to him. She elbowed him. "She's got contacts in the black market. I want her to help me build my wealth."

Alain shook his head. "You are a young idiot. She'll take everything and you will never see it or her again. That son of a bitch Andronikos is probably in on it too. Slimy catamite," he spat.

She could feel Albrecht behind her starting to simmer. She punched Alain hard in the shoulder. "You're probably right. That I am an idiot, I mean. You had better go. We are supposed to be ready to head out first light."

The sunrise turned the clouds a smoky yellow as they made their way along a narrow track to the north and east. The track led to narrow gaps between higher ground, then out again into the open, only to wind between hills again. Relieved to be on the move after forced idleness, many of the pilgrims nevertheless kept glancing about. The way was just too perfect for ambush.

The military leaders, Count Albert of Biandrate and Hugh of Montebello, led the huge party at the fore. Behind them came Stephan of Blois and the two noblemen of Burgundy. These latter rode ahead of their own knights and men-at-arms. After them came the vast mob of Lombards, who were drawn in large part from the cities -- poor men, women and children. Some of them had made the journey a few years back, coming late to join Peter the Hermit. The Germans who came with Peter and the ragtag party of Lombards made as much mischief as they could to discomfit their rivals among the Frankish, utterly destroying Peter's mission. They were virtually uncontrollable, then and now. When not brawling, attacking the other forces' men-at-arms, or running after straying children and livestock, they marched along, many of them drunk, singing a mix of bawdy songs and hymns.

The Germans and others who rode with Conrad had the misfortune to follow the refuse of Lombardy slums. "I think if they don't stop singing for a few minutes, I may turn them over to the Sultan myself," Elisabeth groused. She was glad to be on horseback, for the rabble would just squat and relieve themselves where they walked. She still tried to keep Gauner's hooves out of it.

One of Saint Gilles's men came trotting toward them on his way back to the rear and his commander. Elisabeth waved him over. "What word?"

The man drew up and removed his cap to scratch his lice-ridden head. "The van is just half a league from the main road. Nothing seen yet, but there's a god-awful smell."

Someone piped, "That's just the Lombards!"

The man looked back unsmiling at Elisabeth's similarly unamused look. "It's smoke. Smells like after the crops are harvested and you burn the stubble in the field."

He saluted and doubled his horse's pace back to the rear.

When the German contingent reached the place where the land opened up to reveal the main road heading north, they had to slow and gather in behind the Lombards. The army had stopped. Conrad, standing in his stirrups, could not see what was causing the delay. "Damn it," he muttered. "Why don't they send someone back to tell us what is going on?" He urged his horse through the press, reached the edge of the procession only to be joined by Raymond. Elisabeth heard the Frankish knight mutter, "Now what are the idiots doing?" He and Conrad rode quickly forward, Raymond in the lead.

The Lombards mingled or sat or lay down where they were. Elisabeth could hear grumbling among them, along with women's shrieking laughter, a crying child who had just been pushed in horse dung by an older child, the beginning of a drunken brawl, and the ribald comments of a group of unkempt men taunting a shy girl.

"Why are they so loyal to Bohemond?" Elisabeth asked Black Beast, who rode at her side. "He's Norman. Not Lombard."

"A bunch of them fought under him after they messed things up for the Hermit. He is the Holy Land to them. And everyone knows the fight between him and Raymond is a petty, unworthy thing. Like a couple of bully boys squabbling over an alley."

One of the German men-at-arms called out that there was water in the middle of a mostly dried-up stream-bed, so the knights and the boys tending the sumpter animals headed off into the scrub to let the animals drink.

Coming back into the procession, Beast said, "We must be moving."

The Lombards, from those farther up to the stragglers just in front of the Germans, were standing up, brushing themselves off, and gathering up their possessions and family members. Near Elisabeth a fat woman was kicking a man who was lying on the ground. He finally woke, got up, and slugged her in the face.

Elisabeth started to urge Gauner forward, but to her astonishment the woman fell into step next to the man, who put one arm around her shoulders. The two walked on companionably.

When at long last Elisabeth reached the place where the path joined the main road she instantly understood what had caused the sudden halt. The smell of stubble burned on a cleared field was caused by just that. Only this time the crops were the things burned, not the stubble. Someone, the Turks, had torched every field she could see in either direction. While the pilgrims took the alternate route, the Turks took the main road and systematically destroyed any food the pilgrims could have taken.

She glanced at a body off to the side of the path. It was barely recognizable as the guide hired by Stephen. The body was mangled, its throat slit and clearly visible stab wounds inflicted by dozens of angry men. She caught the smell of urine on the bloody body, urine and worse.

"Did he lead us down the path to delay us, or did he simply tell the Sultan we would be here?" She turned to look at Ranulf as he settled his mount to fall in step with hers. "Or was he innocent, a poor man wanting silver to feed his family with?"

"God knows," the mercenary captain said.

"Which God?" she said acidly.

In places where the crops had not been burned they saw that everything edible was gone. The Turks, after all, had to eat as well as they did. Even if the Turks never attacked, the pilgrims were doomed if they could not find food. "How could this all have been so badly planned?" she wondered in silence.

With the carts and livestock, the men-at-arms and the camp followers on foot, it took days before they could even hope to see the walls of Gangra before them. Scouts continued to report that the army of Kilij Arslan, Sultan of the Seljuk, retreated before them. Every step of the way they deprived the pilgrims of supplies. All they found were burned fields, all the sparse wood available likewise destroyed. Even the few wells they came across were filled in or contained decaying carcasses, usually of dogs, poisoning the water. The river just out of sight was at its midsummer low, so silty water was available, though just barely. Rations halved, the pilgrims marched steadily north and east toward the Pathlagonian city. Everyone was hungry and parched, exhausted. Even the Lombards quieted.

Whatever she had expected, what Elisabeth experienced now was sheer hell. Though she did not wear her helm as she rode in the blazing summer sun, she did wear her mail and the thick padded shirt under it. She could not believe how hot the metal got in the sun. The quilted gambeson held in the heat. She got down from Gauner from time to time, not only to give him some relief from carrying her weight and the weight of her armor but because the horse's body heat was making it worse for her. She could feel the sweat running out of her hair and down her neck and back, where it tickled. She felt as if she wore a sponge full of hot, smelly water under her mail. She longed to strip naked and dive into a pond, but while some of the men took the chance and went to soak themselves in the river, she did not dare. She realized she must be starting to smell as bad as the Lombards and other camp followers. She tried fantasizing about splashing in a fountain with a naked Maliha, but after a short time the fantasy itself started to torture her. She genuinely wondered if she would ever be clean and cool again. She would not let that other thought, the one about whether she would ever see Maliha again, crystallize in her mind.

Elisabeth worried mostly for Gauner. The small patches of green grazing that survived the devastation were long cropped to the roots by animals further up the line. She meted out small handfuls of grain she carried for him. He ate it gratefully, then nuzzled her for more.

"Here!" came a shout from the line ahead of her one afternoon as she fed her horse. "Give me that!"

It was a peasant, a big man with filthy hair and beard and filthier clothing. He strode forward, one hand extended and the other grasping a short thick knife.

"Why should that overgrown horse get to eat when my children do not?" he demanded.

She drew her sword as he approached. "If we come under attack, you will be glad of this horse when he carries me to defend your sorry arse." Any impulse to compassion for his little ones was precluded by her knowledge that what she said was God's own truth.

"You knights," the man said as he spat on her shoes. "You have messed things up bad enough, haven't you? We'll be lucky if we get out of this alive."

Albrecht came to stand at her side, his sword likewise drawn. "It was you pigs who insisted we change course, you and your useless horde of ne'er-do-wells and vagabonds."

The man made a threatening gesture. "Are you trying to tell me we would be doing any better in Konya or further along?" He subsided rapidly, though he continued to spit both saliva and epithets as he turned and slumped away.

Seeing Elisabeth's taut expression, her squire reassured, "We'll take Gangra. Then we will have all the food and water we need for our horses, ourselves and even the garbage like him."

She made the sign of the cross. "From your lips to God's ear."

Some cheer had made its way through the ranks as the walls of Gangra came into view. That hopeful spirit melted away as they neared. There was something solid about this fortress, almost as if it was solid stone across. The battlements were crowded with jeering men shaking their fists at the pilgrims, some turning and exposing their arses in defiance.

The pilgrim leaders commanded the procession to camp for the night some distance from the walls. Scouts sent on ahead found a small clump of trees indicating the presence of water. It turned out to be a well with a terrible taste, but it was all they had. They took what they could, boiled some of it in pots over green wood that smoked and spat. Most slept in spite of the heat and stinging flies, while others stood watch, swaying with weariness and downcast hearts.

In the spacious command tent, where Elisabeth attended on Conrad, wine flowed readily enough. Servants darted here and there with small plates of food kept for the commanders' table. A scout stood, holding his helm in both arms, and slowly imparted his intelligence.

"The town is fully garrisoned. More than that, it is shut tight. It has thicker walls even than usual, and it seems to have been supplied with everything they could need. Food, water, fodder, weapons, you name it."

Stephen of Burgundy interrogated, "Where does this information come from, man?"

"Peasants. Clerics. Deserters. Some of it from our own scouts," he hurried to add, seeing that Stephen was about to cast doubt on what could be trusted from Muslims. "We had parties watching the fortress over the past few days. They saw the arms and men stream in. The carts of provender as well."

Hugh of Montebello chimed in. "Any estimate of the size of the garrison?"

The scout glanced at Raymond. "We cannot be sure. Fifteen hundred, two thousand perhaps?" The commander nodded his agreement.

All heads turned to him. He slowly rose and, tucking his thumbs in his sword belt, gave them a frank one-eyed stare. "It's too well fortified. Too strong. We are a larger force, but they have food, plenty of it to last. We are on our last rations."

He caught Archdeacon Ludovico's move to rise out of the corner of his eye. "Look, without some sort of miracle . . . ," he began to state ominously.

His face shot to the scout, who was clearing his throat meaningfully. "What is it?"

Scuffing his feet on the carpet laid on the dirt under the tent, the man reluctantly responded, "There is more, my lord. One of the deserters says that reinforcements are on their way."

"And shall we believe the words of a heathen dog?" the Archbishop's man accused.

Raymond waved the Archdeacon to silence. "What did he say exactly?" He turned, shouted to a servant, "Get this man a stool and some wine."

They waited while the man took the wine, sat on the stool before them, and drank deeply. "Thank you, my lord." He drank again, then went on, "It seems that up until recently the Sultan, Kilij Arslan, managed to outrage all the other warlords with his presumption of command. He used the threat of Christian pilgrim knights to try to browbeat them into bowing to him. They scoffed, then removed themselves and their support."

"We know that. So?" Odo of Burgundy interrupted, earning a flash of anger from both Raymond and Conrad.

"Our arrival and taking of Ancyra changed all that. The Danishmend leader is alarmed now and is coming to meet us under Arslan's banner."

Count Albert, Anselm's military commander, turned to the Archdeacon. "Danishmend?" he inquired, one eyebrow lifted.

"Malik Ghazi," Raymond supplied. "Go on," he urged the scout.

"Yes, Malik Ghazi. And he sent to Ridwan of Aleppo to furnish reinforcements up from the south." The man drooped, his bad tidings exhausted.

Odo asked Conrad, "How many troops could they be bringing?"

The Constable sighed. "God knows."

All were silent save for a muted "Shit!" that issued from the lips of Raymond de Saint Gilles.