Prince of Legend by Jack Ludlow

perform, one outlined by Bohemund.
    So far, Kerbogha had employed mainly Turks to invest and attack the city – it was they who had issued from the citadel and only once had he tested the walls with mixed contingents. The men he had left in the nearby camps, easy to distinguish because of their attire, had been of the same single and clearly dependable race. To rate the quality and spirit of the rest of the enemy host, those yet to be committed to battle, had been denied to the Crusaders, so Firuz was to examine with great care the main Islamic lines and report back what he observed about their make-up, strength and confidence.

C HAPTER S IX
    J ust getting the Hermit and Firuz out of the Bridge Gate took much negotiation, indeed permission had to be sought from Kerbogha himself to allow them passage, consent brought back by a richly dressed rider leading what was clearly a strong escort. So with a final sign of the cross the pair slipped through the postern gate and crossed the arched stone bridge to the other side of the River Orontes.
    The main Turkish encampment was just south of the western end of the Iron Bridge and as soon as they were sighted, what was a seemingly somnolent area of tents and cooking fires came to life; men leapt to their feet and hurried to see this apparition in his flowing robes, others exited their canvas to come and stare at Peter and his plainly clad companion, their escort slowing so they could be clearly seen and derided.
    ‘Keep your head high,’ Firuz commanded, as Peter let it sink on his chest rather than meet an enemy look. ‘Do not show fear if you want to live.’
    The eyes of the Armenian were darting around, doing what he had been asked, seeking to drink in what he could of the dispositions of Kerbogha’s host as well as their true numbers, for the messages that had come into Antioch over the weeks since the arrival of this army had thrown up variations that were either low and designed to reassure, or fantastical and aimed at inducing terror.
    Some estimate of the true figure could be discerned from the time it took to get from the edge of the camp to the centre, where sat the huge black pavilion of Kerbogha. Here were camped his own personal retainers, those on guard duty well armed, alert and wearing mail, leading Firuz to wonder if they were set there to protect their lord from his own host rather than display.
    Once outside the main flap they were forced to wait in the broiling sun, offered nothing to drink or even spoken to by those entering and exiting with their leader’s commands. They also had to wait when the entire host was called to prayer, Peter at last allowed to close his eyes, in truth joining in the devotions to pray for his corporeal body not his soul.
    When they were called to go inside that was carried out in silence, merely a sharp nod by a man who pulled aside the flap designed to keep out the dust, while inside the passageway there were bowls of burning incense to kill off the latrine smell which attended the gathering of every host. Through another flap they entered the main area, lit by numerous oil lamps that sent out shadows that seemed to exaggerate the hard features of the Turkish commander.
    Kerbogha had a visage that went with his reputation: long, oiled hair swept back to expose a narrow, much lined brow, heavy eyebrows atop black orbs that rarely blinked, hooked nose over full lips that arced down at the corners and a prominent chin covered with a well-trimmedbeard, all set off by his dark skin. Hunched forward it was still possible to see he was a man of some strength, for he wore a short, sleeveless tunic that exposed his muscular arms while his calves were likewise huge. When he spoke his voice seemed to be coming from the soles of his soft leather boots.
    ‘He asks why we have come,’ Firuz said.
    It was a tremulous voice that replied; Peter was in dread of his imagined fate and if it was not the one he had faced in Antioch, it promised to