Chapter 178: Unlucky Bohemond
The second day’s Ayyarasa Road was still clear, bright, with a vast firmament and brilliant sunshine.
Unfortunately, the people who came to the great hall of the main tower to participate in this important meeting were not moved at all by such comfortable sunshine and scenery; they were all distracted, with gloomy faces, showing no trace of joy.
After taking their seats, Raymond even couldn’t help muttering a complaint: “That guy Bohemond…”
Everyone present understood what Raymond meant, and some even nodded in agreement. Indeed, if this plea for aid had not come from Bohemond, but from Manuel I of Byzantium, the Crusaders could certainly have gloated and stood by idly.
But Antioch was different; Antioch, Tripoli, Ayyarasa Road, and Edessa—these four Christian countries in the holiest lands had sworn to each other at their founding to support one another, fight side by side, and never betray.
They could not simply ignore Bohemond’s plea.
“As I say,” Guy of Arabia leaned toward David and said: “Antioch’s Bohemond should have sought to sever ties with Byzantium long ago—or perhaps…” He raised his eyebrows and made an ominous gesture toward David.
David just shook his head; abrogating the contract with Byzantium was not that easy—Bohemond I, the founder of the Principality of Antioch, had signed the treaty after being defeated by Byzantium, recognizing the Emperor of Byzantium as his monarch and willingly becoming his vassal.
Bohemond I had done so partly out of spite at the time, after all, the Principality of Antioch had already been seized by his nephew, and he was merely a nominal Grand Duke.
But this undoubtedly brought endless troubles to the subsequent Dukes of Antioch.
The Byzantine Empire had always eyed Antioch covetously—mainly because of Antioch’s position; Byzantium was at the western end of the Anatolian Peninsula, with its eastern side being the former Seljuk Turks, and even now fragmented, it remained a thorny enemy.
Below their greatest rival, the Sultanate of Rum, lay the Cilician Armenian Kingdom, a small Christian nation squeezed between Byzantium, the Seljuk Turks, and the Christian countries.
Directly opposite Byzantium across the distance was the Principality of Antioch; if they could annex this Christian country, the Byzantine army could form a pincer attack on the Sultanate of Rum.
Therefore, having such an entry point, subsequent Byzantine Emperors never ceased their machinations—from after Bohemond I’s death in Italy, when Alexios I proposed merging Byzantium and Antioch, which was rejected by the Crusaders.
To the Byzantine Emperor John II arriving at the gates demanding that Raymond, Duke of Aquitaine and husband of Bohemond II’s daughter, become his subject.
Then Manuel I, taking advantage while Bohemond III（—that is, our Bohemond）—had fallen into Saracen captivity, opportunistically married his sister and demanded he wed his own niece… thereby formally obtaining suzerainty and inheritance rights over Antioch…
Now the relationship between Antioch and Byzantium was like a tangled mess, impossible to unravel, unless… someone could split it cleanly in two like King Arthur.
“Gentlemen.” Baldwin’s voice came from above, and David immediately straightened his posture.
“We need to consider this matter carefully…”
——————
Bohemond walked out of his room with a gloomy expression.
No, perhaps that was not quite right.
Besides him, there were two Greeks and one Hungarian in the room; one had a wound requiring amputation, the other two had dysentery, and the smells of blood, pus, and feces filled the small space, making it almost impossible to breathe.
He walked out full of irritation, but the scene before him still could not lighten his mood.
Everywhere he looked, whether the vine-overgrown, thorn-infested plains or the half-collapsed water rooms, storages, and workshops, were crammed with dejected, ashen-faced soldiers.
They stood or lay mixed together, like clumps of dark gray shadows, making it impossible to distinguish their faces or status.
Bohemond faintly heard the neighing of horses and wanted to check the stables but stopped; the current silence did not mean peace or contentment, but rather like the sea surface before a storm, where their small boat could be overturned at any moment.
He saw a few soldiers’ eyes look toward him; Bohemond raised his arm and saw the silver-plated chainmail on his body, the gemstone brooch gleaming faintly, and the thick fur cloak.
He hesitated, wanting to return to the room, but recalling those sharp groans, curses, and cries made him feel suffocated.
“Where are our priests?” he asked his attendant; the attendant had followed him for a long time and knew from Bohemond’s expression that he was on the edge of breakdown, not daring to be negligent or delay, immediately whispering, “They are all with Manuel I.”
Hearing this, Bohemond couldn’t help but let out a contemptuous sneer: “A bunch of fools. Still thinking of Manuel I’s gold and silk at a time like this.”
Because the previous military action against the traitor and heathen Mulai had not only failed to achieve any results but also cost a large number of Crusader knights and priests, the Church had many criticisms of them, both from Rome and Ayyarasa Road.
He had not brought many priests this time, and even fewer could be trusted among them.
Bohemond had originally had a loyal priest by his side, but unfortunately he had been killed by a stray arrow in the previous battle; the other priests, hearing that Manuel I had fainted upon seeing his nephew’s head, rushed eagerly to his side to fawn over the Emperor of the Byzantine Empire for money and power.
These shortsighted fools completely failed to see that this campaign was sliding into the abyss of failure at an unstoppable speed; what they sought might be mere castles in the air.
In the end, Bohemond did not return to his room; he leaned against a half-collapsed wall, seemingly casually chatting with his attendant, “Has it been confirmed that it is that one’s head?”
The attendant nodded very clearly; the scene at the time was somewhat chaotic—Manuel I lifted the lid of the box, and upon seeing the head inside, immediately collapsed; as he fell, his arm knocked the box off the table. The head rolled far away, and he boldly picked it up from the ground despite the blood.
The dead man’s face had been wiped clean, so he saw it very clearly; it was indeed that young, handsome general who always carried an air of arrogance.
A sardonic smile appeared on Bohemond’s lips—who knew that Manuel I had castrated all his brother’s male offspring upon ascending the throne.
Yet this so-called nephew was born a year and a half after his last remaining brother Isaac died; even as a posthumous son, the timing was too long.
Everyone knew full well, just like with his grandnieces, that the true father of this child was Manuel I, and it was clear Manuel I doted heavily on this illegitimate son; he had assigned this young man a separate northern army, not expecting him to encounter any fierce enemies.
But by destiny, they encountered a Turkish army no one had anticipated; not only did they ambush in the dense forest the army led by Manuel I’s nephew, but they also severed his head amid the chaos.
Their enemy Arslan II ordered the soldiers to clean the head, wrap it in silk, and return it to Manuel I, which indeed dealt a great blow to Manuel I; it might also be because after leaving Constantinople, though their journey had been smooth—they encountered almost no organized armies—upon entering the buffer zone between Byzantium and the Sultanate of Rum, they suffered successive defeats.
These defeats were not caused by soldiers and swords, but by the vile stratagems used by those Turks.
They drove away the populace, burned villages, poisoned rivers and spring water; even forests and pastures were destroyed, forcing Manuel I’s army of thirty thousand to have all provisions transported slowly from the rear.
The soldiers were hungry and thirsty, unable to find clean water, drank muddy water, resulting in an outbreak of dysentery in the army.
At this time, Arslan II of the Sultanate of Rum sent several armies in successive raids, like swarms of ants gnawing at an elephant; though unable to inflict fatal wounds on the great army, they plunged it irreversibly into dejection and anxiety.
Under these circumstances, Manuel I had to order the army to temporarily regroup and rest in the abandoned Miliosephalon Castle.
This structure had indeed once been a massive and magnificent military fortress, but it had been abandoned for decades. Even with numerous houses, only a few rooms still retained intact ceilings, walls, and uncollapsed floors.
Manuel I was bound to have his own separate chamber, and accompanying him on this campaign were many prominent generals, ministers, and vassals; even Bohemond knew that when everyone was uneasy and irritable, it was best not to be too nitpicky.
If he angered them, the best outcome would be their departure with their armies; the worst… Bohemond did not continue the thought.
Because he saw Manuel I’s eunuch approaching him draped in a white cloak; he immediately straightened his back and went to meet him.
“The Emperor wants you at his side immediately.”
Bohemond followed the eunuch toward where Manuel I was, while slipping a gemstone ring from his hand into the eunuch’s: “What happened? How is the Emperor now?”
“The Emperor is just momentarily distraught; the priests have already bled him.” The eunuch said softly, “He summons you not for anything else, just…” He quickly glanced around, “The Turkish envoy has arrived.”
The place where Manuel I was staying was not the largest room in Miliosephalon Castle; that room had collapsed due to disrepair.
He was probably now in something like an armory, built extra sturdy and solid for storing weapons, but correspondingly, the lighting and layout were poor; even after cleaning, it still reeked of an indescribable murkiness.
Bohemond was likely the last to arrive; since he was not in his room, it took the eunuch extra time to find him.
He entered quietly and soundlessly, taking his position; Manuel I saw him and lightly raised his hand.
All those allowed to stand in this room, and indeed standing there, had arrived; under their feet were once exquisite carpets now covered in mud, their faces illuminated flickeringly by candles and torches like devils; the only face that could be somewhat clearly seen was Manuel I’s, sallow and haggard like gold foil, yet filled with a strange vitality.
He reclined obliquely on a wide couch covered with soft pillows embroidered with gold thread. The Emperor wore a purple robe, a golden cloak, a crown on his head, rings on his hands, and held a scepter, still appearing the dignified and honorable monarch.
But when Bohemond looked up, he felt even more that he resembled a wooden holy image, rotten inside, with all current splendor and color merely a layer of paint and gold foil on the wood surface; perhaps a gentle pull would reveal his true frailty and emptiness.
He did not know if he alone had such thoughts, or more people… but at least the Turkish envoy had already shown a hint of concealed glee.
He saw it, saw that this monarch who had once defeated their master Arslan II was now at the end of his tether.
Even so, he faithfully carried out his mission. He brought greetings from his master Arslan II to Manuel I.
Though they had achieved several victories, facing an army of thirty thousand, Arslan II remained restrained; he paid respects to his monarch—after all, after Manuel I defeated him previously, he had gone to Constantinople to submit to Manuel I and pay tribute.
They had indeed maintained a decade of peace before.
But this balance was swiftly broken after the death of Sultan Nur al-Din of Syria.
Nur al-Din’s death meant that Arslan II of the Sultanate of Rum no longer needed to worry about threats from his Syrian kin. He seized the territory of a Sultanate, forcing their Sultan to seek aid from the Byzantine Empire.
Of course, this nation’s Sultan was neither Christian nor a vassal state of the Byzantine Empire, nor did he have any capital left for transaction or negotiation; Manuel I would not heed him.
But when Manuel I demanded a share of Arslan II’s spoils, it was indeed an obligation a vassal state owed its suzerain, though Arslan II was unwilling.
Manuel I believed that though Arslan II no longer feared the Sultan of Syria, he too had dealt with Hungary and Serbia, having no worries at his back.
Thus, he did not hesitate to expend troops and money to declare war on this defeated subordinate who dared provoke him again, though he probably had not expected to suffer such a great setback before formal hostilities began.
His former servant now blustering before him was even more intolerable.
Though in Bohemond’s view, Arslan II had already shown great humility.
In any case, up to now, the victor was him, not Manuel I; moreover, Arslan II said he was willing to agree to Manuel I’s previous demands, ceding part of the territory to the Byzantine Empire.
Thus, though there would be some losses, it was still acceptable.
But Bohemond felt something was amiss; who let that unlucky wretch—Manuel I’s illegitimate son—die before the formal war even began.
Of course, Manuel I did not have only this one son, and an dishonorable one at that—he now only hoped Manuel I would quickly agree to the matter, so he too could lead his army back to Antioch as soon as possible.
