The ordeal of the city of Abu’l-‘Alā’ ended only on 13 January 1099, when hundreds of torch-bearing Franj roamed through the alleyways setting every house alight. The city walls had already been demolished stone by stone.
The Ma‘arra incident was to contribute to opening a chasm between the Arabs and the Franj that would not be bridged for centuries to come. For the moment, however, the populace was paralysed by terror and ceased to resist—unless forced to do so. When the invaders resumed their southward march, leaving nothing but smoking ruins in their wake, the Syrian emirs hastened to send them emissaries laden with gifts to assure them of their goodwill, and to offer them any assistance they might require.
The first to do this was Sultan Ibn Munqidh, the uncle of the chronicler Usāmah, who ruled the small emirate of Shayzar. The Franj reached his territory very soon after their departure from Ma‘arra. At their head was Raymond of Saint-Gilles, one of the commanders most frequently mentioned in the Arab chronicles. The emir dispatched an embassy to him, and an agreement was quickly concluded: not only would the sultan promise to supply the Franj with provisions, he would also authorize them to buy horses on the Shayzar market and would furnish them with guides to enable them to pass unhindered through the rest of Syria.
The entire region was now aware of the advance of the Franj; their itinerary was finally known. Did they not openly proclaim that their ultimate objective was Jerusalem, where they wanted to take possession of the tomb of Jesus? Everyone who lived along the route to the holy city sought to take precautions against the Frankish scourge. The poorest hid in neighbouring woods, haunted by big game: lions, wolves, bears, and hyenas. Those who had the means headed for the interior of the country. Others took refuge in the nearest fortress, as did the peasants of the rich plain of Bukaya during the first week of January 1099, when they were told that the Frankish troops were near. Gathering their cattle and their reserves of oil and grain, they climbed towards Ḥiṣn al-Akrād, the ‘citadel of the Kurds’, which, from the summit of an almost impregnable peak, overlooked the entire plain as far as the Mediterranean. Although the fortress had long ago fallen into disuse, its walls were intact, and the peasants hoped to find shelter there. But the Franj, ever short of provisions, laid siege. On 28 January their warriors began to scale the walls of Ḥiṣn al-Akrād. Fearing that all was lost, the peasants ḍevised a stratagem. They threw open the doors of the citadel, allowing part of their herd to escape. The Franj, forgetting the battle, hurled themselves after the animals. So great was the chaos in their ranks that the emboldened defenders made a sortie and attacked the tent of Saint-Gilles, where the Frankish commander, abandoned by his bodyguards (who wanted their share of the cattle too), barely escaped capture.
The peasants felt more than a little satisfaction at their exploit. But they knew that the attackers would return to seek revenge. The next day, when Saint-Gilles ordered his men to assault the walls once more, they did not show themselves. The assailants wondered what new trick the peasants had come up with. In fact, it was the wisest trick of all: they had taken advantage of the darkness of night to slip away noiselessly. It was at the site of Ḥiṣn al-Akrād, forty years later, that the Franj would construct one of their most formidable fortresses. The name would change but little: ‘Akrād’ was deformed first into ‘Crat’ and then into ‘Crac’. The Crac des Chevaliers, with its imposing silhouette, still dominates the plain of Bukaya today.
For several days in February 1099 the citadel became the general headquarters of the Franj. A disconcerting scene unfolded there. Delegations arrived from all the neighbouring cities, and even from several villages, leading mules carrying gold, cloth, and provisions. So complete was the political fragmentation of Syria that even the smallest hamlet acted as an independent emirate. Every town knew that in defending itself and dealing with the invaders it could rely only on its own forces. No prince, no notable, no qāḍī, could indulge in the slightest gesture of resistance without placing his entire community in danger. Patriotic sentiments were thus held in abeyance, and the local potentates arrived, with forced smiles, to present their gifts and to pay homage. Kiss any arm you cannot break, a local proverb runs, and pray to God to break it.
It was this wisdom of resignation that dictated the conduct of the emir Janah al-Dawla, ruler of the city of Homs. This warrior, famous for his valour, had been the most faithful ally of the atabeg Karbūqa only a scant seven months ago. Ibn al-Athīr, in fact, notes that Janah al-Dawla was the last to flee at Antioch. But the time for bellicosity or religious zeal was long past, and the emir was particularly accommodating to Saint-Gilles, offering him, apart from the usual presents, a large number of horses, for as the ambassadors from Homs explained mawkishly, Janah al-Dawla had heard that the knights were short of mounts.
Of all the delegations that filed through the immense unfurnished rooms of Ḥiṣn al-Akrād, the most generous came from Tripoli. Presenting one by one the splendid precious stones cut by the city’s Jewish artisans, Tripoli’s ambassadors welcomed the Franj in the name of the most respected prince of the Syrian coast, the qāḍī Jalāl al-Mulk. He belonged to the family of the Banu ‘Ammār, which had made Tripoli the jewel of the Arab East. The Banu ‘Ammār were not one of those innumerable military clans that had carved out fiefdoms for themselves by sheer force of arms, but a dynasty of scholars; their founder was a magistrate, or qāḍī, a title the sovereigns of the city had conserved ever since.
Thanks to the wisdom of the qāḍīs, at the time of the Franj advance Tripoli and its environs were enjoying an age of peace and prosperity that all their neighbours envied. The pride of the citizenry was the enormous Dār al-‘Ilm, or ‘House of Culture’, which included a library of some one hundred thousand volumes, one of the largest collections of the era. The city was ringed with fields of olives, carobs, and sugar-cane, and many kinds of fruit had been amassed in the recent abundant harvests. Its port was the scene of bustling activity.
It was this very opulence that led to the city’s first problems with the invaders. In the message he sent to Ḥiṣn al-Akrād, Jalāl al-Mulk invited Saint-Gilles to send a delegation to Tripoli to negotiate an alliance. This was an unpardonable error. The Frankish emissaries were amazed at the gardens, the palace, the port, and the gold-smiths’ souk—so much so that they paid no attention to the proposals of the qāḍī. They were already dreaming of the rich spoils that would be theirs if they took this city. And it seems that once they had returned to their chief, they did their best to arouse his cupidity. Jalāl al-Mulk, who was naively awaiting Saint-Gilles’s response to his offer of an alliance, was more than a little surprised to discover that on 14 February the Franj had laid siege to ‘Arqa, second-largest city of the principality of Tripoli. Although naturally disappointed, his stronger emotion was terror, for he was convinced that this operation by the invaders was only the first step to the conquest of his capital. How could he help remembering the fate of Antioch? Jalāl al-Mulk already saw himself in the shoes of the hapless Yaghi-Siyān, hurtling shamefully toward death or oblivion. In Tripoli, provisions were being stockpiled in preparation for a long siege. The inhabitants wondered anxiously how much time the invaders would spend at ‘Arqa. Every passing day was an unexpected reprieve.
February slipped by, then March and April. In that year, as every spring, Tripoli was enveloped by the scent of orchards in blossom. The city seemed especially beautiful, for the news was comforting: the Franj had still not managed to take ‘Arqa, whose defenders found this no less astonishing than did the besiegers. The town’s ramparts were no more solid than those of other, more important cities that the Franj had been able to seize. ‘Arqa’s real strength was that from the very first moment of the battle its inhabitants were convinced that if a single breach in the walls were opened, they would all be slaughtered like their brothers in Ma‘arra and Antioch. They kept watch day and night, repelling attacks and preventing the slightest infiltration. The invaders finally got tired of it all. The
clamour of their disputes reached into the besieged city itself. On 13 May 1099 they finally struck camp and slid away, hanging their heads. After three months of exhausting struggle, the tenacity of the resistance had been rewarded. ‘Arqa rejoiced.
The Franj began their southward march anew. They passed by Tripoli at a disquietingly leisurely pace. Jalāl al-Mulk, well aware of their irritation, hastened to send them his best wishes for the continuation of their journey. He was careful to accompany his good wishes with foodstuffs, gold, a few horses, and guides who would lead them along the narrow coastal route to Beirut. The Tripolitanian scouts were joined by many Christian Maronites from Mount Lebanon who, like the Muslim emirs, offered to cooperate with the Western warriors.
Without further attacks on the possessions of the Banu ‘Ammār, such as Jubayl (ancient Byblos), the invaders reached Nahr al-Kalb, the River of the Dog.
By crossing that river, they placed themselves in a state of war with the Fatimid caliphate of Egypt.
The strong man of Cairo, the powerful and corpulent vizier al-Afḍal Shāhinshāh, had not concealed his satisfaction when, in April 1097, emissaries from Alexius Comnenus had informed him that a massive contingent of Frankish knights had arrived in Constantinople and were about to launch an offensive in Asia Minor. Al-Afḍal, ‘the Best’, a 35-year-old former slave who was the sole ruler of an Egyptian nation of seven million, had sent the emperor his best wishes for success and asked to be kept informed, as a friend, of the progress of the expedition.
Some say that when the masters of Egypt saw the expansion of the Seljuk empire, they took fright and asked the Franj to march on Syria and to establish a buffer between them and the Muslims. God alone knows the truth.
Ibn al-Athīr’s singular explanation of the origin of the Frankish invasion says a great deal about the deep divisions in the Islamic world between the Sunnis, whose allegiance was to the Baghdad caliphate, and the Shi‘is, who recognized the Fatimid caliphate of Cairo. The schism, which dates back to a conflict within the Prophet’s family during the seventh century, has always aroused bitter conflict among Muslims. Even men of state like Saladin considered the struggle against the Shi‘is as at least as important as the war against the Franj. ‘Heretics’ were regularly blamed for all the evils besetting Islam, and it is not surprising that the Frankish invasion itself should be attributed to their intrigues. Nevertheless, although the alleged Fatimid appeal to the Franj is pure fiction, the Cairene leaders’ elation at the arrival of the Western warriors was undoubtedly real. The vizier al-Afḍal warmly congratulated the basileus upon the fall of Nicaea, and three months before the invaders took Antioch, an Egyptian delegation bearing gifts visited the camp of the Franj to wish them a speedy victory and to propose an alliance with them. The ruler of Cairo, a soldier of Armenian origin, had no sympathy for the Turks, and in this his personal sentiments squared with the interests of Egypt. Since the middle of the century, Seljuk advances had been eroding the territory of the Fatimid caliphate and the Byzantine empire alike. While the Rūm watched as Antioch and Asia Minor escaped their control, the Egyptians lost Damascus and Jerusalem, which had belonged to them for a century. A firm friendship developed between al-Afḍal and Alexius, and between Cairo and Constantinople. There were regular consultations and exchanges of information; common projects were elaborated. Shortly before the arrival of the Franj, Alexius and al-Afḍal observed with satisfaction that the Seljuk empire was being undermined by internal quarrels. In Asia Minor, as in Syria, many small rival states had been established. Had the time come to take revenge against the Turks? Would the Rūm and the Egyptians now both recover their lost possessions? Al-Afḍal dreamed of a concerted operation by the two allied powers, and when he learned that the basileus had received a large reinforcement of troops from the lands of the Franj, he felt that revenge was at hand.
The delegation he dispatched to the besiegers of Antioch made no mention of a non-aggression pact. That much was obvious, thought the vizier. What he proposed to the Franj was a formal partition: northern Syria for the Franj; southern Syria (meaning Palestine, Damascus, and the coastal cities as far north as Beirut) for him. Al-Afḍal was careful to present his offer at the earliest possible date, before the Franj were certain that they would be able to take Antioch. He was convinced that they would accept with alacrity.
Their answer had been curiously evasive, however. They asked for explanations and the clarification of details, in particular as to the future of Jerusalem. Although they treated the Egyptian diplomats amicably, even offering to show them the severed heads of three hundred Turks killed near Antioch, they refused to conclude any agreement. Al-Afḍal did not understand. Was his proposal not realistic, even generous? Could it be that the Rūm and their auxiliaries seriously intended to take Jerusalem, as his envoys suspected? Could Alexius have lied to him?
The strong man of Cairo was still uncertain what policy to adopt when, in June 1098, he received the news of the fall of Antioch, followed three weeks later by that of Karbūqa’s humiliating defeat. The vizier then decided to take immediate action in an effort to take friend and foe alike by surprise. In July, Ibn al-Qalānisi reports, it was announced that the generalissimo al-Afḍal, emir of the armies, had left Egypt at the head of a powerful army and had laid siege to Jerusalem, where the emirs Sokman and Ilghazi, sons of Artuk, resided. He attacked the city and erected mangonels. The two Turkish brothers who administered Jerusalem had just arrived from the north, where they had participated in Karbūqa’s ill-fated expedition. After a forty-day siege, the city capitulated. Al-Afḍal treated the two emirs generously, and set them and their entourage free.
For several months, events seemed to prove the master of Cairo right. It seemed as though the Franj, now facing an accomplished fact, had given up any idea of pressing ahead. The poets of the Fatimid court outdid themselves in composing eulogies of the famous exploit of the man of state who had wrenched Palestine from the Sunni ‘heretics’. But in January 1099, when the Franj relaunched their resolute march to the south, al-Afḍal became uneasy.
He dispatched one of his confidants to Constantinople to consult Alexius, who responded, in a celebrated letter, with a stunning confession: the basileus no longer exercised the slightest control over the Franj. Incredible as it might seem, these people were acting on their own account, seeking to establish their own states, refusing to hand Antioch back to the empire, contrary to their sworn promises. They seemed determined to take Jerusalem by any means. The pope had summoned them to a holy war to take possession of the tomb of Christ, and nothing could deter them from their objective. Alexius added that for his part, he disavowed their action and would strictly observe his alliance with Cairo.
Despite this latter assertion, al-Afḍal had the impression that he had been caught in a mortal trap. Being himself of Christian origin, he found it easy to understand that the Franj, whose faith was ardent and naive, might be determined to press their armed pilgrimage through to the end. He now regretted having thrown himself into this Palestinian adventure. Would it not have been better to let the Franj and the Turks fight for Jerusalem instead of having gratuitously interposed himself across the route of these knights, as courageous as they were fanatical?
Realizing that it would take him several months to raise an army capable of confronting the Franj, he wrote to Alexius, imploring him to do all he could to slow the march of the invaders. In April 1099, during the siege of ‘Arqa, the basileus sent the Franj a message asking that they postpone their departure for Palestine, saying—and this was his pretext—that he would soon be arriving in person to join them. For his part, the ruler of Cairo sent the Franj fresh proposals for an agreement. In addition to the partition of Syria, he now explained his policy on the holy city: freedom of worship was to be strictly respected, pilgrims were to be granted the right to visit whenever they desired, so long, of course, as they were unarmed and travelled in small groups. The response of the Franj was scathing: ‘We will go all of us to
Jerusalem, in combat formation, our lances raised!’
It was a declaration of war. On 19 May 1099, matching word and deed, the invaders unhesitatingly crossed Nahr al-Kalb, the northern limit of the Fatimid domain.
But the River of the Dog was a largely fictitious border, for al-Afḍal had done no more than reinforce the garrison in Jerusalem, abandoning the Egyptian possessions of the littoral to their fate. All the coastal cities, virtually without exception, hastened to reach some accommodation with the invader.
The first was Beirut, four hours’ march from Nahr al-Kalb. Its inhabitants dispatched a delegation to the knights, promising to supply them with gold, provisions, and guides, if only they would respect the harvests of the surrounding plain. The Beirutis added that they would be prepared to recognize the authority of the Franj if they succeeded in taking Jerusalem. Saida, ancient Sidon, reacted differently. Its garrison effected several daring sorties against the invaders, who took their revenge by ravaging its orchards and pillaging nearby villages. That was to be the last act of resistance. The ports of Tyre and Acre, although they would have been easy to defend, followed the example of Beirut. In Palestine most towns and villages were evacuated by their inhabitants even before the Franj arrived. At no time did the invaders encounter any serious resistance, and on the morning of 7 June 1099 the inhabitants of Jerusalem saw them in the distance, on a hill, near the mosque of the prophet Samuel. They could almost hear the sounds of their march. By late afternoon the Franj were already camped at the walls of the city.