The Crusader States and Their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099-1187 0198824548, 9780198824541

Table of contents :
Cover
The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Contents
List of Tables
Abbreviations
Map
Epigraph
Introduction
Methodology and Definitions
Methodology: Army Sizes
The Near East in the Summer of 1099
1 Frankish Expansion
The First Decades: the Kingdom of Jerusalem under Godfrey and Baldwin I, 1099–1118
The First Decades: the County of Tripoli, 1099–1117
The First Decades: the Principality of Antioch, 1099–1115
The First Decades: the County of Edessa, 1099–1115
2 Friends and Foes (1099–1129)
The Fatimids 1099–1123
The Turks: Aleppo and Damascus
The Armenian Lords
3 Aleppo and Damascus (1117–29): The Challenge of the Big Cities
Aleppo
Damascus
4 The Evolving Balance of Power (1130s–1148)
John II Comnenus and the Atabeg Zangi
Why did the Franks’ Territorial Expansion Stop?
The Siege of Damascus: 1148
5 The Rise of Nur al-Din 1149–74
Military Activity 1146–74: the North
Military Activity 1149–74: the South
Frankish Manpower and Mercenaries
The Size of Armies
6 Saladin and the Battle of Hattin
Kurdish Involvement in the Wars of the Near East 1099–1187
Saladin and the Crusader States 1174–87
Rethinking Hattin 1187
Fighting Pitched Battles
Theoretical Approaches and Models concerning Warfare and Alliances in the Medieval Near East
The Strategic Role of Castles in Turkish and Frankish Campaigning
7 Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange in the Evolution of Near Eastern Warfare
The Combatants
Feigning Flight
Learning to Defeat Frankish Heavy Cavalry
Identifying the Cross-cultural Transmission of Ideas and Tactics
Conclusion
Why did the Crusader States Lose the Contest for the Near East?
Decadent ‘Pullani’?
Problems with Offensive Operations in Syria
Speed
Integrating Crusaders
Synthesis
Bibliography
Primary
Secondary
Unpublished Works and Theses
Index

Citation preview

The Crusader States and their Neighbours

The Crusader States and their Neighbours A Military History, 1099–1187 N IC HO L A S M O RT O N

1

1 Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Nicholas Morton 2020 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2020 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2019954048 ISBN 978–0–19–882454–1 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A. Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

For my family

Acknowledgements Historians are in the main a friendly bunch and one of the great joys of this career has been the positivity and supportiveness I have encountered at every turn from so many scholars. There are many people I would like to thank for their advice on  specific points in this present work and these include: Alan Murray, James Titterton, John France, Paul Cobb, and Kevin Lewis, but I would also like to acknowledge the broader atmosphere of friendly enquiry and synergy-seeking that has been my experience in so many conferences and conversations in recent years. Turning to my friends and colleagues at Nottingham Trent University, I would particularly like to thank the inter-library loans team whose unstinting willingness to acquire vast stacks of books and articles for this present project has been absolutely fundamental to its completion. I am also very grateful to have been granted a sabbatical in order to write-up this book; again it could not have been completed without this assistance. Finally, and most importantly, I would like to thank my beloved family for their ongoing love, enthusiasm, and support and it is to them that this book is dedicated.

Contents List of Tables Abbreviations

xi xiii

Introduction1 Methodology and Definitions 5 Methodology: Army Sizes 9 The Near East in the Summer of 1099 13 1. Frankish Expansion The First Decades: the Kingdom of Jerusalem under Godfrey and Baldwin I, 1099–1118 The First Decades: the County of Tripoli, 1099–1117 The First Decades: the Principality of Antioch, 1099–1115 The First Decades: the County of Edessa, 1099–1115

20

2. Friends and Foes (1099–1129) The Fatimids 1099–1123 The Turks: Aleppo and Damascus The Armenian Lords

50 50 62 78

20 28 35 43

3. Aleppo and Damascus (1117–29): the Challenge of the Big Cities 88 Aleppo88 Damascus96 4. The Evolving Balance of Power (1130s–48) John II Comnenus and the Atabeg Zangi Why did the Franks’ Territorial Expansion Stop? The Siege of Damascus: 1148

99 99 106 112

5. The Rise of Nur al-Din 1149–74 Military Activity 1146–74: the North Military Activity 1149–74: the South Frankish Manpower and Mercenaries The Size of Armies

122 122 131 143 153

6. Saladin and the Battle of Hattin Kurdish Involvement in the Wars of the Near East 1099–1187 Saladin and the Crusader States 1174–87 Rethinking Hattin 1187 Fighting Pitched Battles

163 163 168 184 189

x Contents Theoretical Approaches and Models Towards Warfare and Alliances in the Medieval Near East The Strategic Role of Castles in Turkish and Frankish Campaigning

7. Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange in the Evolution of Near Eastern Warfare The Combatants Feigning Flight Learning to Defeat Frankish Heavy Cavalry Identifying the Cross-cultural Transmission of Ideas and Tactics

203 210

218 220 229 233 237

Conclusion Why did the Crusader States Lose the Contest for the Near East? 242 Decadent ‘Pullani’? 242 Problems with Offensive Operations in Syria 245 Speed251 Integrating Crusaders 255 Synthesis258 Bibliography Index

265 283

List of Tables 1.1. Incursions launched by or against the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187)

21

1.2. Incursions launched by or against the county of Tripoli (1099–1187)

31

1.3. Armies raised by the county of Tripoli (1102–17)

32

1.4. Incursions launched by or against the principality of Antioch (1099–1187)

37

1.5. Armies raised by the principality of Antioch including allied forces (1099–1187)40 1.6. Incursions launched by or against the county of Edessa (1099–1150)

46

1.7. Armies raised by the county of Edessa including allied forces (1099–1150)

48

2.1. Armies raised by the Fatimids and the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1123)

54

2.2. Armies raised by Aleppan rulers (1097–1110)

64

2.3. Incursions launched by or against Aleppo’s rulers (1099–1128)

65

2.4. Armies raised by Damascene rulers (1099–1130)

70

2.5. Incursions launched by or against Damascus’ rulers (1099–1128)

71

2.6. Armies raised by the rulers of Mosul along with other major armies despatched into the Levant by the Seljuk Sultan (1107–26)

75

2.7. Armies raised by Armenian rulers (1099–1117)

84

3.1. Armies raised by the Artuqids (1099–1138)

91

5.1. Armies raised by Zangid rulers (1146–76)

133

5.2. Armies raised by the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187)

156

6.1. Armies raised by Saladin or his commanders (1174–87)

173

6.2. Battles fought between the Franks and their Turkish and Fatimid neighbours (1099–1187)

194

7.1. Rebellions against Turkish rule involving appeals for assistance made to the Crusader States

253

Abbreviations Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the journey to Jerusalem, ed. S. Edgington, OMT (Oxford, 2007). AC Anna Comnena, The Alexiad, trans. E.  Sewter, revised by P.  Frankopan (London, 2009). ASC1 Anonymous Syriac Chronicle pt. 1: ‘The First and Second Crusades from an Anonymous Syriac Chronicle’, trans. A. S. Tritton and H. A. R. Gibb, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 65:1 (1933), 69–101. ASC2 Anonymous Syriac Chronicle pt. 2: ‘The First and Second Crusades from an Anonymous Syriac Chronicle (concluded from p. 101)’, trans. A. S. Tritton and H. A. R. Gibb, The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, 65:2 (1933), 273–305. AM al-Maqrizi, A history of the Ayyūbid sultans of Egypt, trans. R. J. C. Broadhurst (Boston, 1980). BB The Historia Ierosolimitana of Baldric of Bourgueil, ed. S.  Biddlecombe (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2014). BH Bar Hebraeus, The chronography of Gregory Abû’l Faraj: the son of Aaron, the Hebrew phys­ician commonly known as Bar Hebraeus, trans. E.  W.  Budge, 2 vols (Oxford, 1932). CCCM Corpus Christianorum: Continuatio Mediaeualis. FC Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913). FE Frutolfi und Ekkehardi chronica necnon Anonymi Chronica Imperatorum, ed. F.-J. Schmale and I. Schmale-Ott (Darmstadt, 1972).1 GF Gesta Francorum: The Deeds of the Franks and the other Pilgrims to Jerusalem, ed. R. Hill, OMT (Oxford, 1962). GN Guibert of Nogent, Dei Gesta per Francos, ed. R.  B.  C.  Huygens, CCCM CXXVIIA (Turnhout, 1996). HHW The History of the Holy War: Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, ed. M. Ailes and M. Barber, 2 vols (Woodbridge, 2003). IAA(AST) Ibn al-Athir, The annals of the Saljuq Turks, trans. D. S. Richards (Abingdon: Routledge, 2002). IAA(C) The chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading period from al-Kamil fi’lTa’rikh, ed. and trans. D.  S.  Richards, 3 vols, Crusade Texts in Translation XIII, XV, XVII (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006–10). AA

1  Please note: with regard to the authorship of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle and its con­tinu­ ations, this study adopts the conclusions offered by McCarthy in: Chronicles of the Investiture Contest: Frutolf of Michelsberg and his continuators (Manchester, 2014).

xiv Abbreviations IAA(HA) IM IP IS

JK KAD MA ME

MGH MGH S MGH SRG MGH SRGN MS NC OMT OV RA RC RHC ARM. RHC OC. RHC O RRR RS UIM UKJ

Ibn al-Athir, ‘Histoire des Atabecs de Mosul’, RHC Or., vol. 2.2 (1876), 1–375. Ibn Muyassar, ‘Extraits d’Ibn Moyesser’, RHC Or., vol. 3 (Paris, 1884), 462–73. ‘Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi‘, Chronicles and me­mor­ ials of the reign of Richard I, ed. W. Stubbs, vol. 1, RS (London, 1864). Ibn Shaddad, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin or al-Nawādir al-Sult ̣āniyya wa’l-Maḥāsin al-Yūsufiyya by Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, trans. D. S. Richards, Crusade Texts in Translation VII (Aldershot, 2002). John Kinnamos, Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus, trans. C.  Brand (New York, 1976). Kamal al-Din, ‘Extraits de la chronique d’Alep per Kemal ed-Dîn’, RHC : Or., vol. 3 (Paris, 1884), 573–690. Michael Attaleiates, The History, trans. A.  Kaldellis and D.  Krallis, Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library XVI (Cambridge, MA, 2012). Matthew of Edessa and Gregory the Priest, Armenia and the Crusades: Tenth to Twelfth centuries: The chronicle of Matthew of Edessa, trans. A. Dostourian (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1993). Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores. Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum. Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum Nova Series. Michael the Syrian, The Syriac Chronicle of Michael Rabo (the Great): a universal history from the Creation, trans. M. Moosa (Teaneck, NJ, 2014). Nicetas Choniates, O City of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniates, trans. H. J. Magoulias (Detroit, 1984). Oxford Medieval Texts Orderic Vitalis, The ecclesiastical history of Orderic Vitalis, trans. M. Chibnall, 6 vols, OMT (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969–90). Le “Liber” de Raymond D’Aguilers, ed. J.  Hill and L.  Hill (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1969). Ralph of Caen, Tancredus, ed. E.  D’Angelo, CCCM CCXXXI (Turnhout, 2011). Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Documents Arméniens. Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Historiens Occidentaux. Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Historiens Orientaux. Revised Regesta Regni Hierosolymitani Database (http://crusades-regesta. com/). Rolls Series Usama ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation: Islam and the Crusades, trans. P. Cobb (London, 2008). ‘Die Urkunden der Latinischen Könige von Jerusalem‘, MGH Diplomata Regum Latinorum Hierosolymitanorum, ed. H. E. Mayer, 4 vols (Hanover, 2010).

Abbreviations  xv WC WM WT

Walter the Chancellor, Bella Antiochena, ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Innsbruck, 1896). William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum: the history of the English kings, ed. R. Mynors, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. R. Huygens, CCCM LXlll(A) (Turnhout: Brepols, 1986).

ANATOLIAN SELJUK S

CILICIAN ARMENIA Anazarba Adana Tarsus Mamistra

Antalya

Manbij

al-Atharib

Kafartab Apamea Shaizar Margat Hama

CYPRUS Tortosa Chastel Blanc Krac des Chevaliers C OUN T Y OF TRIPOL I Homs Tripoli Gibelacar Jubail

Limassol

Beirut M E D I T E R R A N E A N

Damascus

Sidon Banyas

Tyre

Safad Hattin Tiberias Lake Tiberias Nazareth Caesarea Belvoir KING D OM OF JERUSALEM Nablus Arsuf Jaffa Acre

Alexandria

Damietta

Jericho Ramla Jerusalem Ibelin Ascalon Bethlehem Gaza Hebron Darum Bethgibelin DEAD SEA Kerak

FAT I M I D E M P I R E Cairo

Monreal

Map of the Crusader States and their neighbours

Bosra

up

E

Aleppo

O rontes

Latakia Jabala Nicosia

Harran

Azaz

Harim

PRINCIPALIT Y OF ANTIO CH

COUNTY OF EDESSA Edessa

Tell Bashir

Baghras Antioch

Samosata

Marash

Qalat Jabar hra t s e

Raqqa

William of Tyre, on the historian’s predicament: A double abyss inevitably yawns before the writer of history. . . . For either he will kindle the anger of many persons against him while he is in pursuit of the actual facts of achievements; or, in the hope of rousing less resentment, he will be silent about the course of events, wherein, obviously, he is not without fault. For to pass over the actual truth of events and conceal the facts intentionally is well recognized as contrary to the duty of a historian . . . . Compliance wins friends, truth, hatred.2

2  Translation: William of Tyre, A History of Deeds done beyond the Sea, trans. E. A. Babcock and A. C. Krey, vol. 1 (New York, 1976), 53.

Introduction The study of warfare in the Medieval Near East is a fascinating—if often grim— field of research. Here was a region where tens of different factions vied for supremacy decade-after-decade in a rolling sequence of conflicts that saw the relentless making and unmaking of dynasties, empires, and alliances. These wars pitted a bewildering array of military traditions against one another. Protagonists ranged from the well-resourced empires of Fatimid Egypt and Byzantium through to the nomadic Bedouin and Turkmen tribes. Then there were the invading armies of the Crusaders from Western Christendom and the Turks from the Central Asian Steppe; the former determined to maintain and expand their pos­ ition on the Levantine coastline, and the latter endeavouring to maintain their still-tenuous grip on the Near East as a whole. There were also a myriad of regional powers including Arab dynasties, Kurdish tribes, Armenian lords, and Nizari communities (known as ‘Assassins’), each with its own interests in this complex world, each pursuing a distinct approach to war-making. The military history of the Near Eastern region during the twelfth century is consequently extraordinarily complex. Its reconstruction—at least as far as the sources allow—requires a detailed understanding of all the key players and, by extension, the treaties, ambitions, prejudices, affinities, and political events that guided their decision-making. The resulting web of events is deeply entangled and cannot be unpicked with simple tools. The traditional notion for example that this period can be understood through the lens of straightforward Christianvs-Muslim antagonism is wildly too simplistic. As will be shown, ideas of holy war represent only one strand within the complex mesh of pressures and imperatives which cumulatively guided the region’s political-military development. This present project was launched with such thoughts in mind: a desire to bring out as fully as possible the convoluted nature of these wars and the entangled nature of their broader political context. Readers expecting the clean-cut rationalization of Near Eastern warfare into a simple take-home soundbite will— I’m afraid—be disappointed. In geographical scope, it is the intention here to attempt a ‘big picture’ reconstruction of warfare conducted across a region defined broadly by the Nile Rapids in the south, Mosul and the Tigris in the east, Melitene in the North, and the Isle of Cyprus in the west. Chronologically, it ­covers the period 1099–1187, but also draws upon material from the First and Third Crusades, whose sources are too rich in military detail to be excluded from this analysis. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

2  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The main focus, as the title suggests, is the Crusader States and yet a fundamental conviction underpinning this research is the idea that the Crusaders’ many neighbours have to be fully explored if the Franks’ own military behaviour is to be understood. This then is an attempt at a holistic study. Groups who have received little attention in previous military histories of the region, will here receive close scrutiny. These include: the Turkmen tribes, the Kurds (prior to the Ayyubids), the Bedouin and the Arab dynasties of northern Syria (such as the Banu Kilab and Banu Uqayl), as well as the Armenian lords both in Cilicia and further east. Structurally, this work will begin by working chronologically through the military history of this period, seeking to recreate the challenges and opportunities which guided the decision-making of the Near East’s key protagonists, whether Frankish, Turkish, Arab, Fatimid, or Armenian, etc. (Chapters 1–6). Interspersed within these sections will be more focused discussion on key topics including various factions’ approaches to (a sample): the construction of fortifications, the despatch of long/short range raids, the employment of mercenaries, the availability of financial/military resources, and the socio-cultural norms which shaped their approach to warfare. Chapter 7 will then focus specifically on the question of whether any faction in this period could really be said to have ‘innovated’ in their approach to war, while the concluding chapter will seek to offer some ­synthesis on the broader question of why the Crusader States ultimately collapsed in 1187. Naturally, some elements of the Near East’s military history have been told many times before. Historians require little further discussion on: the kingdom of Jerusalem’s conquest of the Levantine coastal cities from 1099–1124, or the ­struggles between Nur al-Din (Zangid ruler of Syria)1 and King Amalric I (king of Jerusalem) over Fatimid Egypt (1160s), Saladin’s rise to power (1160s–70s), the involvement or the military orders in the defence of the Crusader States, or the major crusading expeditions. A brief history of these wars/themes is supplied here in the interests of providing an over-arching narrative, along with some attempt to apportion them an appropriate role in the developing military affairs of this time. Nevertheless, this work does not seek to recapitulate existing work. It is concerned, firstly, with opening up new topics of conversation and, secondly, providing new interpretations—where possible—to existing questions. To take the former ambition, historians working in this area have to date focused overwhelming on the kingdom of Jerusalem, with only the more adventurous scholars making bold forays further north to report major battles such as the Field of Blood (1119) or Harim (1164). Far less interest has been shown in the military history of the principality of Antioch (although its overall history has

1  Nur al-Din’s father Zangi gave his name to his later dynasty (the Zangid dynasty).

Introduction  3 been recreated by Cahen and more recently by Asbridge and Buck), still less for the county of Edessa.2 Likewise scholarly discussion on the relationships between the Anatolian Turks (Seljuks and Danishmendids) and the northern Crusader States is patchy at best; so too is the thirty-one-year relationship between Tughtakin (atabeg and later ruler of Damascus) and the Crusader States (­1097–1128). We know very little either about: Kurdish-Frankish relations (pre-1168), Nur al-Din’s relations with the Anatolian Seljuks, or the impact of Turkmen migrations on Zangid or Frankish political history. These are the kinds of lacuna this work plans to fill. To take the latter ambition, this work is the product of a granular analysis of Near Eastern warfare—embracing every expedition I could find mentioned in the surviving sources, ranging from the smallest raid through to the most contested sieges. These encounters were then entered into a now huge spreadsheet containing details of every identified military encounter to be fought in the Near Eastern region during this period. The idea was to agglomerate as much information as possibe. The main benefit of this research tool has been the ability to render vis­ ible patterns of warfare that would otherwise be difficult or impossible to spot. This has in turn shed new light on old questions whilst suggesting new macro approaches to the study of warfare on a regional scale. New answers are proposed here on debates, such as: the Franks’ near-consistent ability to defeat the Fatimid Empire in battle (1099–1123), the military logic and objectives underpinning the Second Crusade’s siege of Damascus (1148), and the reasons for Saladin’s great victory at Hattin (1187). New interpretive models are also offered for thematic questions such as: the Franks’ and Turks’ differing attitudes towards fighting pitched battles, the manpower resources available to the Crusader States, and the scale of the mercenary establishment in the Near East. Turning to the source material, the surviving evidence whether textual or nontextual can only be described as an embarrassment of riches—at least by medieval standards. For so many contemporary authors, writing in so many traditions, military-political history was a—often the—major point of interest consuming much of their text resulting in a huge quantity of relevant material. Some of these sources have been well thumbed by modern historians (William of Tyre’s historia being the obvious example), others less so. Indeed, astute readers looking through the footnotes suppplied in this work will notice that it leans heavily on texts produced by Muslim and Syriac authors, most of which are known, but few of which have received considerable attention from this perspective. These sources are then supplemented by the region’s rich architectural legacy and the many surviving

2 T. Asbridge, The Creation of the Principality of Antioch, 1098–1130 (Woodbridge, 2000); A. Buck, The Principality of Antioch and its Frontiers in the Twelfth Century (Woodbridge, 2017); C. Cahen, La Syrie du Nord a l’epoque des Croisades et la principauté franque d’Antioche (Paris, 1940). The main study on the county of Edessa is: M. Amouroux-Mourad, Le Comté d’Edesse: 1098–1150 (Paris, 1988).

4  The Crusader States and their Neighbours artefacts from this period; materials which likewise supply an invaluable supplement to the written record. One of the outcomes of the research phase of this project was to reveal how much more work is needed on this topic. There may be several weighty tomes concerning crusading warfare (and related topics) but compared to the sheer scale of the source material available, the historiography is actually fairly slight. Among the main works in this area, the best known is naturally R.  C. Smail’s influential study: Crusading Warfare: 1097–1193.3 This pioneering work broached questions on a whole array of topics. Smail’s insights on themes including pitched battles, fighting marches, and the role of castles in the Crusader States has been instrumental in stimulating debate in later decades. More recently, Marshall’s Warfare in the Latin East: 1192–1291 represented another major step forward.4 He focused on the situation in the thirteenth century—offering a clear survey— but it is his methodological contribution which is of particular relevance for this present work. He showcased the benefits of tabulating military encounters so as to identify patterns and trends.5 This approach has subsequently been taken to the next stage by scholars who have sought to produce meaningful statistics based on the available evidence.6 This present work follows in their footsteps by tabulating a huge quantity of data and using this to produce many statistical findings on issues such as: the number of incursions made by a given faction over time, the average number of expeditions launched per year by a given commander, or the frequency with which various factions encountered victory or defeat in battle. More recently, Tibble has produced his study The Crusader Armies.7 Among his many thought-provoking arguments, he builds out on the idea that the struggle between the Franks and their many Turkish opponents should be understood as a conflict between a predominantly agricultural society (the Franks) and a society still transitioning from the steppe warfare of earlier generations (the Turks from the Central Asian Steppe).8 Nicolle’s research and reference works on the arms and armour (including hundreds of images) employed by all factions during this period is a true gift to scholars working on this field.9

3 R. Smail, Crusading Warfare, 1097–1193, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 1995). 4 C. Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 1192–1291 (Cambridge, 1992). 5  See, more recently: J. Hosler, The Siege of Acre, 1189–1191: Saladin, Richard the Lionheart, and the Battle that decided the Third Crusade (New Haven, 2018), appendices B–D. 6  See, for example: I. Wilson, ‘By the sword or by an oath: siege warfare in the Latin East’, A Military History of the Mediterranean Sea: Aspects of War, Diplomacy, and Military Elites, ed. G. Theotokis and A. Yıldiz, History of warfare CXVIII (Leiden, 2018), 235–52. 7 S. Tibble, The Crusader Armies (New Haven and London, 2018). 8  See for example: J.  France, ‘Warfare in the Mediterranean region in the age of the Crusades, 1095–1291: a clash of contrasts’, The Crusades and the Near East: Cultural Histories, ed. C.  Kostick (Abingdon, 2011), 9–26. 9 D. Nicolle, Arms and Armour of the Crusading Era, 1050–1350: Western Europe and the Crusader States (London, 1999); D. Nicolle, Arms and Armour of the Crusading Era, 1050–1350: Islam, Eastern Europe and Asia (London, 1999); D. Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I: Byzantium, Western Europe

Introduction  5 A linked field of research concerns Levantine siege warfare and castle building. Among the many leaders in this field, Ellenblum’s Crusader Castles and Modern Histories warrants particular attention, as does Raphael’s Muslim Fortresses in the Levant and Fulton’s recent Artillery in the Era of the Crusades.10 Other works could be named but these studies represent some of the most recent publications on questions pertinent to this present study. These include the distribution and purpose of frontier castles, the use of fortresses by Muslim rulers, and the development and effectiveness of siege technology. This work is not primarily concerned with supplying a detailed discussion on Frankish or Turkish military architecture or the mechanics of siege warfare, but it does engage strongly with these works in its assessment of the impact of either castles or siege technology on broader developments in warfare across this region—as Russ Mitchell has observed: its necessary to explore the ‘worms-eye-view’ if you want to understand the ‘bird’s-eye-view’.11 Another topic only lightly covered in this work is naval warfare. Whilst maritime activities are alluded to here, this topic lies beyond the scope of this project.12 Perhaps the most influential author in the framing of this present work is John France. He is well known for his magisterial Victory in the East: a Military History of the First Crusade. This work remains the main ‘go-to’ monograph on this subject and yet it is the insights and questions raised by many of France’s later articles that have triggered several of the discussions contained in this work. France’s ideas concerning: the role played by cities in the military landscape of the Near East, the availability or mercenaries and, more broadly, the extent to which we should view the conduct of war by commanders in this region as ‘innovative’— breaking new ground, whether technologically or organizationally—has broached or galvanized debates that are picked up throughout this work.

Methodology and Definitions As mentioned above, one of this project’s key research tools is a detailed spreadsheet agglomerating information on every reported military encounter and the Battle for the Holy Land (London, 2007); D. Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II: Muslims, Mongols and the Struggle against the Crusades, 1050–1300AD (London, 2007). 10 R.  Ellenblum, Crusader Castles and Modern Histories (Cambridge, 2007); K.  Raphael, Muslim Fortresses in the Levant: Between Crusaders and Mongols, Culture and Civilization in the Middle East (Abingdon, 2011); M. Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades: Siege Warfare and the Development of Trebuchet Technology, History of Warfare CXXII (Leiden, 2018). 11  R. Mitchell, ‘Archery versus mail: experimental archaeology and the value of historical context’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 4 (2006), 18. 12  For existing studies on maritime activities and naval warfare in the Eastern Mediterranean see: D.  Mirkin, Sailing to the Holy Land: Crusader Ships,Seamanship, Logistics, and Landing Operations, BAR International Series (Oxford, 2018); J.  Pryor, Geography,Technology and War: Studies in the Maritime History of the Mediterranean, 649–1571 (Cambridge, 1988).

6  The Crusader States and their Neighbours to occur between 1099–1187. It now contains almost 1300 entries. It enables a granular reconstruction of events and marks a break from many previous studies and survey works which have tended to concentrate on the more famous ­campaigns and major battles. Naturally it would have been ideal to include this spreadsheet as an appendix to this present work, but unfortunately it is so enormous that it will require a volume in its own right and I am currently exploring options to publish this compiled data either as a stand-alone book or as an online source. By seeking to identity all known military encounters across the above region, it has been possible to draw statistical conclusions from the tens of battles and hundreds of sieges, raids, and skirmishes that have been tabulated. This is not to say that it is possible to create a complete data set of every military encounter which ever occurred; we are naturally limited by those reported in the sources. Some armed clashes are known merely through a chance comment or throwaway line. Some exist as ‘known unknowns’—for example, occasions when a castle was conquered by one faction in one year and was then reconquered by them many years later but with no indication about when or how it was lost in the intervening years. The surviving sources also provide better coverage for some regions/pol­ities than others. The military histories of the county of Edessa and the Danishmendid Turks have been perhaps the most challenging to recreate. Likewise, there are chronological gaps in the evidence. For example the kingdom of Jerusalem lacks contemporary sources for the 1130s, but has more detailed texts for the earlier and later periods. Having said this, the sheer quantity of military data—taken as a corpus—is impressive. One of the earliest tasks in this project was to devise specific definitions for the different types of military encounter to occur in this era: sieges, raids, battles, skirmishes, and rebellions. Laying down precise boundaries between these types of encounter is difficult, not least because at times they overlap; for example, rebellions can become sieges, raids can involve skirmishes. Such boundaries raise awkward questions which have tended to be passed over by scholars such as: how ‘big’ does a field encounter need to be in order to be classified as a battle? Consequently, five basic categories are used in this work: battle, skirmish, raid, siege, rebellion. Pigeon-holing encounters within this system proved easier than expected and awkward cases were surprisingly few. Nonetheless at times it was very difficult to attach a suitable label. For example, when Bohemond II, prince of Antioch was ambushed and killed in Cilicia by the Danishmendids (1130), should this Frankish defeat be regarded as a skirmish or a battle? The sources provide insufficient detail to make a firm judgement about the scale of the encounter. In such cases, I have tended to be conservative, assuming that a smaller encounter took place where doubt exists (thus this encounter is listed as a ‘skirmish’).

Introduction  7 The definitions employed for this study are as follows: Skirmish • Scale: an encounter ending in the defeat or forced withdrawal of a contingent of at least 200 soldiers and/or 50 Frankish knights.13 • Context: a conflict taking place between at least two parties not divided from one another by a permanent fortification (i.e. a siege). Siege • Context: a conflict taking place between at least two parties separated from one another by a permanent fortification. • Scope: a ‘siege’ can be said to include all attempts to assault a defined fortification as well as a certain amount of liminal fighting along the wall’s margins and minor attacks on the besieger’s camp. Defining a ‘siege’ is actually very difficult because the sources frequently report that one protagonist ‘took’ or ‘seized’ a stronghold without specifying whether fighting actually took place. For the purposes of this study, the definition of a ‘siege’ includes the negotiated surrender of a stronghold using the threat of immediate assault, even if it is not clear whether actual fighting took place. Attacks against unfortified settlements are defined as raids.14 • Exceptions: major sallies from the walls, involving—or likely to have involved—forces of greater than 200 soldiers and/or 50 Frankish knights, are considered separately as skirmish encounters. Battles15 • Scale: an encounter ending in the defeat or forced withdrawal of an army of at least 3000 soldiers and/or at least 350 Frankish knights. Please note that an encounter in which two large armies sent out skirmishers to fight one another, but did not engage one another with their main forces, is not included in this category but could be listed if appropriate as a ‘skirmish’. • Context: a battle may include temporary field defences but it cannot include encounters fought between enemies separated by a permanent fortification (i.e. a siege). 13  Incidentally, the various numerical boundaries listed here have been selected by looking at a broad range of encounters typically defined by historians within a given category and then making a judicious selection—on a common-sense basis—about where lines should drawn. Where the scale of opposing armies is not known or if the numerical estimates supplied for the opposing armies are unreliable (which is frequently the case) then an estimation has been made based on the kinds of forces deployed by a given leader or state in previous encounters. 14  For discussion on the definition of a siege see: Wilson, ‘By the sword or by an oath’, 236. 15  Marshall defined ‘battles’ rather more broadly as ‘an engagement in which at least one of the opposing forces decides to seek military success through a direct confrontation, in the open, with its enemies’: Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 145.

8  The Crusader States and their Neighbours • Impact: a battle needs to have been reported as a major encounter by writers from at least two different cultural traditions (thus reflecting the impact and scale of its consequences).16 Raid • Scope: a raid is an attack in which the aggressor causes substantial damage to an opposing party, typically laying waste to crops, agricultural infrastructure, etc. It might also include the killing or forced deportation of the local population. Attacks on unfortified towns and villages are also contained within this definition. Rebellion • Scope and scale: an insurrection taking place within a town, city, or major ­fortification sufficient in scale for the rebels either to assume control of said urban space or for the existing urban authorities to either call for external help or to use major military contingents to suppress the rebellion. Widespread rural rioting can be considered under this heading but only if the rebel forces are of a sufficient scale to assault a permanent fortification or to fight a skirmish/battle. Sudden and effective palace coups or changes in allegiance are not counted in this category unless they include a substantial military encounter. • Purpose: rebellions can include insurrections taking place for any purpose including: dynastic rivalries, popular revolt, or aristocratic infighting. • Escalation: where rebellions spill beyond this definition, for example, to include marching armies of rebels laying siege to multiple strongholds or waging campaigns on their own account then these later encounters are listed separately as sieges or battles, the point being that only the initial insurrection is listed as a rebellion. Following the moment of the initial rebellion, it is considered that a new faction has been formed. Alongside these categories it has been necessary define several further terms which will be used throughout this work. These are classified as follows: • An Incursion: an attack waged against enemy territory including one or more of the following events: a skirmish, raid, battle, or siege. Attacks in which the aggressor causes no known damage but seeks construct an offensive fortification on hostile territory are also considered incursions. 16  Theotokis comments that to be classified as a decisive battle, the encounter should have ‘longterm socio-economic implications’. This would certainly classify a ‘decisive battle’. The above definition accepts the importance of impact, but is more limited in its definition so as to include all battles not solely those deemed ‘decisive’. See: G. Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics in Syria and Mesopotamia in the Tenth Century: a Comparative Study (Edinburgh, 2018), 7.

Introduction  9 • Success/failure (battles and skirmishes): the victor in a battle or skirmish is defined as the party still in possession of the battlefield at its conclusion. The defeated party is, by contrast, the faction compelled to yield possession of the field. The only exceptions are encounters in which one (or more) factions made no attempt to hold the field of battle. An example might be a ‘fighting march’ or a Turkish attempt to slow or degrade a Frankish field army with no intention of defeating it, or taking/holding the land it occupies. In such cases, the victor is defined as the faction which best achieved its desired objective. In cases where it is not possible to define a victor then the battle is considered ‘indecisive’. • Success/failure (sieges): in a struggle over a strongpoint then the victor is defined as the faction in possession of that strongpoint at the culmination of the siege. I would also point out that where I use the term ‘frontier’—a term which has received considerable scrutiny in recent years—I may use it broadly both to indicate a frontier zone or a specifically defined frontier. On the issue of whether precisely defined frontiers existed in the Latin East, I have little to add to Pringle’s summary—that while frontiers in some areas could be ‘fuzzy or fluid’, they were normally identifiable and well known.17

Methodology: Army Sizes A common issue discussed in many analyses of medieval warfare is the vexed question of determining army sizes. The fundamental problem here centres on the question of whether historians can plausibly believe some/any of the numbers supplied by contemporary authors.18 In some cases, reaching a verdict is not difficult. For example, when the Hospitallers reported that at the battle of Montgisard (1177) the Christian army defeated 75,000 enemy troops, it is easy to recognize that they were deliberately exaggerating, even though this letter was written immediately after the event by a senior Hospitaller who had either been present at the battle or who certainly had access to those who had.19 This verdict can be stated confidently because such a force would have been greatly in excess of any army raised by any Egypt-based power of this era, including the Fatimids, 17  D. Pringle, ‘Castles and frontiers in the Latin East’, Norman Expansion: Connections, Continuities and Contrasts, ed. K. Stringer and A. Jostischky (Farnham, 2013), 234. 18  For helpful discussion on this see: W. Hamblin, The Fatimid Army during the Early Crusades (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Michigan, 1985), 66–71. In addition for a very instructive discussion on the military manpower available to contemporary rulers and to the challenges posed by the statistics offered by contemporary authors for the armies of this period see: A. Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie de 491/1098 à 569/1174: Analyse comparée des chroniques médiévales latines et arabes (Damascus, 2008), chapter 4 (online edition). 19 R. Röhricht, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Kreuzzüge, vol. 2 (Berlin, 1878), 128.

10  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Ayyubids, and Mamluks. The most natural conclusion is that the author wanted to artificially amplify the extent of the Christian victory. Likewise in 1119 Usama ibn Munqidh describes a skirmish against the Frankish garrison in Apamea during which one of his men fled back to the town of Shaizar claiming their force had been attacked by 1000 troops. By contrast, Usama himself says that the Franks only had sixty cavalry and sixty infantry; clearly numerical estimates could be affected by perception and experience.20 Other concerns could be raised regarding reported army sizes in other contexts: perhaps an author deliberately reduced an army’s size so as to make its defeat less ignominious; perhaps an author wanted to report a battle in grandiose terms, dialling up the size of both forces; perhaps a source had mistakenly included camp followers and merchants in a calculation of fighters, etc. Army commanders might likewise deploy their army in such a way as to give a false impression of the size of the forces under their command, thereby skewing the numerical estimates reached by their opponents.21 The list of potential problems goes on and such thoughts all militate against taking the statistics offered in medieval sources too seriously.22 Having said this, such concerns have to be balanced against several other factors. Firstly, it was in every military commander’s interests to acquire precise information about the size of their own forces as well as those of their opponents. With regard to Frankish forces, these were generally composed from a series of contingents supplied—to take the kingdom of Jerusalem as an example—by elite families and allies. Again, rulers needed to know the size of each aristocratic contingent, partly so as to calculate the overall size of their own army but also to gauge whether the vassal in question was making a creditable contribution. In many cases the size of the contingent to be supplied by a magnate was established by contract.23 The size of mercenary forces would also be known precisely because they required pay. For these reasons, Frankish commanders would probably have had a fair idea about the size of the forces under their command. Thus, chron­ic­ lers with access to this information—such as Fulcher of Chartres (King Baldwin I’s personal chaplain), William of Tyre (chancellor of the kingdom of Jerusalem), Walter the Chancellor (Antioch’s chancellor)—need to be treated with the utmost seriousness when they supply numbers, especially for their own forces. In some cases, the chronicler actually breaks down the overall army size to illustrate its component contingents. Describing the Edessan, Armenian, and Antiochene 20  UIM, 50–1. 21  For broader discussion on similar themes see: Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics, 135. 22  For discussion on the problems involved in using contemporary numbers for army sizes see: G. Theotokis, The Norman Campaigns in the Balkans, 1081–1108 (Woodbridge, 2016), 20–1; J. France, Victory in the East: a Military History of the First Crusade (Cambridge, 1994), 122–42. 23  The most famous document of this kind is the list of knights’ service owed to the crown of Jerusalem contained in John of Jaffa’s Livre des Assises (although the question of how this document should be interpreted and how seriously it should be taken has yet to be settled). See: P. Edbury, John of Ibelin and the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Woodbridge, 1997), 118–26, 195–200.

Introduction  11 forces which assembled to fend off Mawdud of Mosul’s attack on the Crusader States in 1111 Albert of Aachen supplies specific figures for the contingents supplied by many of the participating noblemen (i.e. Richard of Marash: sixty cavalry and one hundred infantry; Engelger of Apamea: 200 cavalry, etc.).24 With regard to enemy armies, commanders had several means by which they could gauge the size of the opponent’s forces. The most obvious approach was to send out experienced scouts who could be relied upon to make reasonable guesses. There are few reports of how reconnaissance troops reached such estimates, but—to take an English example—there is an interesting reference in an account of the battle of Lincoln (1217) to senior leaders including Sir Simon Poissy, the count of Perche and the earl of Winchester being sent out specifically to make a considered assessment of the size of the French army (and its English allies), returning very detailed figures.25 It is not unreasonable to suggest that Near Eastern commanders would have exhibited at least as much care. The Frankish forces besieging Damietta during the Fifth Crusade likewise possessed designated ‘estimators’ (estimatores) whose role was to guage the size of their own forces.26 Other methods suggested by contemporaries for determining the size of an enemy force include: (1) counting the number of hoof-prints left by their horses on soft ground, (2) calculating the size of their vacated encampments and (3) inspecting places where an army had crossed a river.27 Many sources also report the number of enemy killed in a particular encounter and Ibn al-Qalanisi speaks of experts who were tasked with the job of making a count of the fallen.28 In addition, some contemporary authors took substantial pains to ascertain the correct numbers. For example, describing the battle fought between the Zangids and Saladin in 1176, Ibn al-Athir criticized the author Imad al-Din for suggesting that Saladin defeated 20,000 enemy troops, accusing him of deliberately inflating the figures to flatter his master. Instead, he checked the official army register and established that the Zangid army was only 6000–6500 strong.29 For these reasons, it is necessary to recognize that the business of assessing army sizes was taken seriously by contemporaries who developed a whole series of skills and administrative techniques specifically to produce reliable figures. This is not to say that we should unproblematically accept every figure we are given, rather that we have to keep an open mind to the notion that there might be a solid basis to the figures supplied by contemporary authors, even for enemy forces. This present work contains a series of tables listing the numbers supplied by contemporaries for a range of different forces, chiefly those deployed by Turkic 24  AA, 814. 25  The History of William Marshal, trans. N. Bryant (Woodbridge, 2016), 197. 26  Original text: Oliver of Paderborn, Die Schriften des kölner Domscholasters, späteren Bischofs von Paderborn und Kardinal-Bischofs von S. Sabina, ed. H. Hoogeweg (Tübingen, 1894), 259. 27 ‘Skirmishing’, Three Byzantine Military Treatises, trans. George  T.  Dennis, Dumbarton Oaks Texts IX (Washingdon DC, 1985), 161. 28  IQ, 155. 29  IAA(C), vol. 2, 242.

12  The Crusader States and their Neighbours powers and the Crusader States. The numbers supplied by the surviving sources have already been edited to some extent to include only those that are at least vaguely plausible (so the claim that the First Crusade encountered a Turkish force of 360,000 troops at Dorylaeum would not be included!).30 Plausibility in turn was assessed by applying a number of checks including the following questions: are the numbers supplied by a source for any given faction broadly consistent with figures supplied for this faction’s armies in earlier/later years? Is it plausible that an army of this size could have been maintained logistically in a conflict zone?31 Does the general language used by a source to describe the size of two embattled armies correspond to the numbers it supplies? Having assembled references to army sizes from sources drawn from multiple traditions, it is notable that for some encounters the estimates supplied in the surviving sources are conspicuously different between authors—not even nearly similar. Having said this there are also instances of remarkable correlation. Three of the four estimates supplied for the size of the Antiochene/Armenian force at the battle of Harim (1164) are remarkably consistent, placing the Frankish army at between 10–13,000 troops, even though the three authors offering these figures wrote in very different traditions (Latin, Syriac, and Arabic). Even when numbers seem very different, they can actually be far closer than they might appear. For example, for the battle of Tell Danith (1115), Ibn al-Athir and Walter the Chancellor supply fairly similar numbers for the Frankish force (respectively: 500 knights and 2000 infantry and 2000 troops overall), but Matthew of Edessa and Bar Hebraeus supply far lower figures (700 cavalry and 500 cavalry respectively). Despite the seeming disparity, some authors report army sizes listing only specific contingents; sometimes just the knights, sometimes just the core force without its various allies. Consequently, these Eastern Christian authors seem to have listed only the Frankish knights and, as such, their estimates may actually correspond well to the other estimates. Moreover, even if all the figures supplied by an author feel inflated, it can still be helpful to examine them comparatively to get an idea of the relative sizes of different armies.32 For example, many of the figures supplied for Artuqid Turkmen forces by many authors are implausibly high, but the fact that several quite sober authors supply such figures (authors who are normally quite measured elsewhere) informs us at the very least that the Artuqid armies were perceived as being substantially larger than most other contemporary forces. Consequently, the basic approach taken in this study consists firstly in acknowledging that assessing the validity of numbers supplied in the surviving

30  GF, 20. 31  For an introduction to studies on this topic see the articles contained in: Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades, ed. J. Pryor (Aldershot, 2006). 32  France makes a similar point (Victory in the East, 125).

Introduction  13 sources is indeed very difficult. Secondly, however, this work is founded on the conviction that if a judicious and comparative approach is taken to the sources and if all the available figures are brought together in a single place, then it is possible at least to reach an informed estimate.

The Near East in the Summer of 1099 In the 1080s Anselm, prior of Bec and future archbishop of Canterbury, wrote to a friend named William. Anselm’s purpose was to dissuade him from travelling to Jerusalem in pursuit of his brother who had set out for the east a little while previously, but had not returned. Anselm deployed a range of arguments to steer him away from his goal, but among them he pointed out the chaos engulfing the region noting that the holy city, ‘is no vision of peace, but rather of tribulation’.33 Anselm was not wrong. Even before the First Crusade, the Near East—pol­it­ic­ al­ly speaking—was a complete mess. This was not a new state of affairs. The region’s tortuous politics was the product of multiple convulsions spanning back well over a century, each of which contributed its own legacy whilst adding a new layer of complexity. First, there was the break up of the Abbasid Empire in the tenth century. In the wake of this empire’s collapse, several Arab and Kurdish dynasties took control across the region’s major powerbases including: the Banu Kilab in Aleppo, the Banu Uqayl in Mosul, the Banu Mazyad in al-Hilla in Iraq and the Marwanid Kurds in the Diyar Bakr.34 Meanwhile, the Shia Fatimid dynasty seized control in Egypt and soon after began to contest control over many of the Levant’s major cities and coastlands. Then the Turks made their entry onto this fractured scene. Turkic tribes had been moving south-west out of the Central Asian Steppe and across the Oxus river in ever increasing numbers for decades. They are commonly known as the ‘Seljuk’ Turks and yet the Seljuk family was itself merely the leader of the lar­gest— if always a rather fragmentary—confederation of groups within a much broader movement of tribal communities. The Ghaznavid Turks of Persia and Khurasan sought to block their advance for a time, but were driven back to their southern marches in the 1040s by the invading Turkish tribes who continued to drive west towards Mesopotamia and the Levant.

33  Translation: Anselm of Canterbury, Letters of Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury: Volume 1, the Bec Letters, ed. S. Niskanen, OMT (Oxford, 2019), 281. 34  For an introduction to these families see: C. Bosworth, The New Islamic Dynasties (New York, 1996), 66, 87, 89, 91–2. H. Kennedy, ‘The late ‘Abbāsid pattern, 945–1050’, The New Cambridge History of Islam: Volume 1, the Formation of the Islamic World: Sixth to Eleventh Centuries, ed. C. Robinson (Cambridge, 2010), 360–93.

14  The Crusader States and their Neighbours As the eleventh century progressed the Turks swept across Persia, with many of their constituent Turkmen groups ultimately finding themselves drawn to the fertile pastures of Azerbaijan, Mosul, and the northern areas of the Jazira. Local powers, whether the Kurds around Mosul, the Armenians and Georgians further north, the Arab tribes of Iraq (such as the Banu Mazyad), and the Buyids in Baghdad, made some attempt to offer resistance, whether singly or in c­ o-operation, but the Turks proved highly adept at playing divide-and-rule, taking sides in internal disputes and preventing the formation of any united front. Determined resistance was fractured and sporadic. In 1055, the Turks made their first conquest of Baghdad. More formal Seljuk rule over Syria itself began in the 1070s with the arrival of the Turkmen commander Atsiz, but he was preceded by unaligned or semialigned Turkic tribes, who either raided or offered themselves as mercenaries to local powers. A similar picture was true in Byzantine Anatolia. Turkic warbands arrived in growing numbers, either as raiders, pastoralists seeking grazing, or swords-for-hire; infiltrating local power networks and causing substantial disruption. The Byzantine Emperors attempted to drive them out but their ability to maintain sustained resistance was enfeebled by their own internal disputes, while those Byzantine commanders who did march against the Turks encountered difficulties using their slow-moving armies, burdened with waggons and supply trains, to tackle the fast moving Turkic forces. Defeats such as the famous battle of Manzikert (1071) served to highlight the Byzantines’ inability to drive away these foes, thus inciting more groups to seek their fortunes in the Anatolian region. The situation in Syria and the Jazira was much the same with the leading Arab fam­ ilies, governing the major cities of Aleppo, Damascus, and Mosul, finding themselves under increasing pressure first to acknowledge Turkish supremacy, and then second to surrender control of their cities entirely.35 Further south, the Fatimids in Egypt worked hard to resist Turkish authority. Initially they attempted to galvanize regional resistance against the Turks by sta­ ging expeditions in Syria and Iraq in the 1050s, but with the failure of these campaigns the Fatimids themselves became a target and the Turks attacked into the Nile Delta in the 1070s. At the time the Fatimids were substantially weakened by their own internal problems. The repeated failure of the Nile floods led to drought and agricultural disaster, which precipitated in turn famine and a steep economic decline.36 This could not have come at a worse time. The Fatimids had been recruiting Turks in large numbers to serve in their army and these groups were persistently demanding more pay for their labour. The empire’s economic

35  For a broader survey of these events see: A. Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence of MuslimTurkish Anatolia, ca. 1040–1130, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies (Routledge, 2017). 36 R. Ellenblum, The Collapse of the Eastern Mediterranean: Climate Change and the Decline of the East, 950–1072 (Cambridge, 2013), 147–59.

Introduction  15 weakness meant that financing the army became impossible; a fact which provoked a rebellion in the 1060s which almost destroyed the empire. Eventually the Fatamids, led by Badr al-Jumali, managed both to suppress their own rebelling Turkish forces and to drive out a major Turkish invasion—launched out of Syria in 1077 — but these endeavours left them exhausted and weakened. By the 1080s the situation had begun to stabilize somewhat with the Levantine region split down the middle. In the north, the Seljuks were firmly in control. In 1084–5, Sultan Malik Shah and his commanders embarked upon a major campaign across the Jazira and Northern Syria which essentially quashed or brought to heel all the smaller regional protagonists. The leading Arab dynasties were firmly disenfranchised from all their major settlements, being compelled to resentfully content themselves with a handful of strongholds or smaller towns. Here at least, the Turks were in the ascendant. Further south, the situation was more muddled. Much of the coastal region was in Fatimid hands; thus this was a major frontier of war between two hostile factions. Jerusalem itself changed hands several times, suffering a brutal overthrow by Turkish forces in 1077 following a rebellion the previous year.37 From c.1084 onwards Jerusalem was held by the Turkish commander Artuq (originator of the Artuqid dynasty) and his heirs in the name of Tutush (Malik Shah’s brother).38 The holy city itself had suffered greatly in previous decades as the Fatimid rulers of Egypt, preoccupied with their own civil wars, proved unable to prevent the encroachment of Bedouin tribes on the holy city and its immediate hinterland.39 The population was in decline and pilgrims from Western Europe were often waylaid whilst others observed that many of the region’s churches had been despoiled. The quasi-stability, brought about by Malik Shah’s intervention in the north and the stabilization of the Fatimid Empire following the convulsions of the 1060s and 1070s was fleeting. Malik Shah’s death in 1092 plunged the Near East into renewed turmoil. Multiple factions emerged from among the late sultan’s closest male kin. These claimants then became locked in a series of long-term civil wars over the sultanate that decisively ended the brief period of meaningful Seljuk authority over the Jazira and Syria. In any case, these were distant frontier regions when viewed from the perspective of the Seljuks’ heartlands around Isfahan, Rayy, and Hamadhan. The result was further chaos. Malik Shah’s brother Tutush controlled much of Syria but he was killed in 1095 pursuing an almost successful attempt to claim the sultanate. His passing caused his sons Ridwan and Duqaq to separately inherit his major cities of Aleppo and Damascus and they too immediately began fighting one another after taking power. 37  IAA(AST), 192. 38  IAA(AST), 224. M. Gil, A History of Palestine, 634–1099, trans. E. Broido (Cambridge, 1992), 413. 39 Ellenblum, The Collapse of the Eastern Mediterranean, 172–95.

16  The Crusader States and their Neighbours This then was the world which the First Crusaders entered in 1097. They advanced south-east across Anatolia to Antioch; then south either down through the Syrian highlands or along the shoreline to Arqa; and from there down the coast towards Jaffa and Jerusalem. In taking this route they were marching along the frontline between the embattled Seljuk and Fatimid Empires. From the perspective of regional politics, the Crusader advance essentially served to throw a brick into already troubled waters. From the Turks’ standpoint, the Crusaders’ astonishing ability to defeat nearly all their main regional field armies seems to have come as a shock. In former decades the Turks had suffered occasional defeats, but nothing on anything like this scale, and never with this consistency. Time and again, at Nicaea, Dorylaeum, and then three times near Antioch, the Turks were driven from the battlefield. For the first time in years the Turks were genuinely on the back foot. This reality was not lost on the region’s former rulers and many seized the opportunity to reassert themselves. The Fatimids retook Jerusalem in 1098 (having regained control over the port city of Tyre only the year before); the Banu Kilab—former Arab governors of Aleppo—started to raid the Turks in the Aleppan region;40 the Armenians rebelled against the Turks, their warlords either asserting their independence or seeking Crusader protection; the Bedouin made an alliance with the Crusaders within only a few months of the Franks’ arrival.41 Even a few Turkic warlords—seeing the way the wind was blowing—tried to strike up accords with the Crusaders. Further afield, the Byzantines used the Crusader advance to retake much of Western Anatolia42 and the Georgians threw off their tribute to the Seljuk Sultanate and began to contemplate an advance to the south.43 Viewed from a Turkish perspective, the First Crusade was a catastrophe, threatening a sweeping rollback of Turkish supremacy across the entire region.44 Consequently, when the Franks brutally conquered Jerusalem in 1099, the regional map was highly fractured. In the south, the Fatimid Empire remained the most coherent and arguably the most powerful regional player. Egypt was its powerbase but it also possessed the city of Ascalon on the southern Levantine

40  KAD, 588. 41  Precisely when this relationship developed is unclear. Albert of Aachen mentions an agreement between Godfrey and the ‘Principes . . . Arabie’: AA, 504. A later charter talks about Bedouin under Frankish rule in a village near Bethany since the First Crusade (RRR, no. 361; UKJ, vol. 1, 320). William of Tyre places this emerging relationship in 1101: WT, 464–5. The next reference indicating specifically military co-operation between the Bedouin and the kingdom of Jerusalem appears in 1108–9: IAA(C), vol. 1, 146. 42 P. Frankopan, The First Crusade: the Call from the East (London, 2012), 146. 43  ‘History of David, king of kings’, Rewriting Caucasian History: the Medieval Armenian Adaptation of the Georgian Chronicles, the Original Georgian Texts and the Armenian Adaptation, trans. R. W. Thomson (Oxford, 1996), 317. 44  The Turks had suffered rebellions previously in the Syrian region following the defeat of the Turkmen leader Atsiz who was defeated trying to conquer the Fatimid Empire in 1077: Gil, A History of Palestine, 412.

Introduction  17 coast, a little over forty miles west of Jerusalem. Many of the coastal cities further north, such as Tyre, Acre, and Tripoli, looked to Egypt for protection whilst existing in a state of semi-independence. Egypt’s Fatimid rulers also had some claim on the loyalties of northern Syria’s considerable Shia population, many of whom viewed them as their natural overlords. These ties go some way to explaining the willingness of the Turkish ruler Ridwan to strike an alliance with the Fatimids in 1097, even going so far as to have the khutbah said for the Fatimid caliph in all his lands except Antioch, Aleppo, and Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man.45 Ridwan of Aleppo was in a difficult position. He had to balance the demands of his substantial Shia population, which included a large community of Nizaris (who the Seljuks had grown to hate in previous decades), against the expectations of his fellow Seljuks (at least nominally Sunni), who were appalled at the idea of a Fatimid (Shia) alliance. Faced with the add­ ition­al complications of the Crusaders’ attack on Antioch he may even have offered to convert to Shia Islam if, by so doing, he could secure some relief from the Fatimids for his embattled situation.46 Returning to the south-east, the Transjordan region was Bedouin territory. It had never been satisfactorily conquered by the Turks and the Bedouin had moved into the power vacuum left by the retreat of the Fatimids in the mid-eleventh century; a process resulting from the Fatimid civil war and the many droughts and famines suffered by the region.47 To the north of Transjordan were the fertile lands of the Hawran and then the townlands and orchards of Damascus. Damascus at this time was a bastion of Sunni authority and here at least Turkish authority was secure.48 To the north of Damascus were the major towns of Hama and Homs and also the Arab town of Shaizar. The rulers of Shaizar were the Banu Munqidh, an Arab dynasty which had only recently risen to prominence, purchasing the town in 1081.49 They had managed to hold onto at least some of their power despite the rising tide of Seljuk authority. Predictably, with the advent of the First Crusade, they chose to remain neutral, making a peace treaty with the Franks and selling them some horses, but taking no further action; the logical course of action of a small state sandwiched between two conquerors.50

45  IAA(AST), 294. 46  RA, 110. Admittedly, Raymond of Aguilers does not name which Turkish leaders made this offer of conversion, but Ridwan is the obvious choice given his recent alliance with the Fatimids. 47  The evidence for droughts and famines comes from Ellenblum’s study The Collapse of the Eastern Mediteranean, 89–90, 172–3. His study focuses on the Jerusalem and its environs, but he does demonstrate that his evidence base includes Jordan as well (89). 48 R. Burns, Damascus: a History, 2nd ed., Cities of the Ancient World (Abingdon, 2019), 168–70. 49  For the history of Shaizar see: C. Tonghini et al., Shayzar I: the Fortification of the Citadel, History of Warfare (Leiden, 2012). 50 N. Morton, Encountering Islam on the First Crusade (Cambridge, 2016), 166–7.

18  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Further to the north, the regional topography was dominated by the Euphrates and—situated near a crucial crossing point of this major river—was the fortress of Qal‘at Ja‘bar. This stronghold and a few outlying settlements were all that remained of the once-powerful Arab Banu Uqayl clan which had formerly ­controlled Mosul and subsequently been suppressed by the Turks.51 Mosul itself, on the other side of the Jazira was firmly in Turkish hands, but in its hinterlands the Turks had only limited control over the various Kurdish groups that populated the area. Along its northern margins there were also a range of semiindependent Turkic dynasties, only sporadically acknowledging the Seljuk Sultanate, including the Artuqid family who would later come to dominate the fertile lands of the Diyar Bakr from their major seat at the town of Mardin.52 This region was also influenced by a substantial Turkmen (Turks who still maintained a nomadic way of life) presence.53 The fertile belt—spanning from Azerbaijan in the east, through the foothills of Southern Anatolia and the northern Jazira, all the way across to the Taurus mountains and the area around Melitene—attracted these Turkmen groups in large numbers and their presence continued to expand throughout the twelfth century and beyond. The Turkmen tribes ultimately pushed west into Anatolia’s Meander valley, the Cilician plains, and Antioch’s farmlands. From a demographic perspective, this Turkmen belt was the Syrian Turks’ main reserve of manpower and whilst Turkmen groups are reported further south, grazing in the Homs Gap, the hilly territory north of Lake Tiberias, and the hinterland around Damascus, many Turkish rulers drew heavily upon these northern tribes to supply themselves with manpower. Southern Anatolia and the Cilician plains were also home to a substantial population of Armenian Christians, who formerly had lived—often reluctantly— under the authority of the Byzantine Empire and subsequently the Seljuk Turks. At the time of the First Crusade, they had been under Turkish rule for many years, but the advent of the Franks sparked them into a rebellion, which drove the Turks out of vast swaths of territory and ultimately paved the way for the first Crusader state: the county of Edessa, centred on the city of Edessa itself but expanding quickly to incorporate many surrounding towns such as Saruj and 51  For discussion on the Banu Uqayl see: J.  France and N.  Morton, ‘Arab Muslim reactions to Turkish authority in northern Syria, 1085–1128’, Warfare, Crusade and Conquest in the Middle Ages (Farnham, 2014), XV, 1–38; S. Heidemann, ‘Arab nomads and the Seljūq military’, Shifts and Drifts in Nomad–Sedentary Relations, ed. S. Leder and B. Streck, Nomaden und Sesshafte II (Wiesbaden, 2005), 294. 52  For overviews on Turkish settlement in the Diyar Bakr and especially the Artuqids of Mardin see: C.  Hillenbrand, ‘The career of Najm al-Dīn İl-Ghāzī’, Der Islam, 58:2 (1981), 250–92; C. Hillenbrand, ‘The establishment of Artuqid power in Diyār Bakr in the Twelfth Century’, Studia Islamica, 54 (1981), 129–53. 53 For a helpful definition of ‘Turkmen’ tribes as opposed to ‘Turks’ see: D.  Durand-Guédy, ‘Goodbye to the Türkmens? The military role of nomads in Iran after the Saljūq conquest’, Nomad Military Power in Iran and Adjacent Areas in the Islamic Period, ed. K.  Franz and W.  Holzwarth (Weisbaden, 2015), 110.

Introduction  19 Samosata. The second major Crusader state—the principality of Antioch—also had a substantial Armenian population, particularly in its northern marches. Indeed, the Gesta Francorum observed that ‘Saracen’-populated territory only began south of Antioch; implying the existence of a demographic frontier across this zone.54 The third Crusader State, founded as part of the First Crusade, was naturally the kingdom of Jerusalem centred on the eponymous city and boasting little immediate hinterland. A handful of nearby towns fell to the Crusaders during their advance including Bethlehem, Lydda, Ramla, and more distantly, Tiberias on the shores of Lake Tiberias, but it had only one port—the small haven of Jaffa.55 This then was the situation at the time of the conquest of Jerusalem. A few years later a fourth Crusader State was founded when the First Crusade commander Raymond of Toulouse laid siege to the city of Tripoli. In time this would become the county of Tripoli. 54  GF, 30. 55  For discussion on the early history of Jerusalem under Godfrey of Bouillon see: S. John, Godfrey of Bouillon: Duke of Lower Lotharingia, Ruler of Latin Jerusalem, c.1060–1100, Rulers of the Latin East (Abingdon, 2018).

1

Frankish Expansion The First Decades: the Kingdom of Jerusalem under Godfrey and Baldwin I, 1099–1118 The kingdom of Jerusalem’s early priorities are well known. Following the ­withdrawal of the First Crusaders the few remaining Franks were confronted with the need to gather sufficient manpower and money to secure their fragile position. Jerusalem itself was not promising in this regard, having no significant natural resources. Orderic Vitalis summed up the city’s economic value, noting that the land thereabouts was parched, not suitable for grazing, possessing few trees, and supporting only a few vines and olives.1 Moreover, within the Jerusalem area itself there are frequent reports of low-level disorder, banditry, and occasional Bedouin attacks which would only have compounded the threat posed by the Franks’ more powerful neighbours.2 Consequently, for its first ten years at least, the kingdom’s objectives centred squarely on the need to survive in the face of staunch resistance whilst securing essential sources of raw materials, cash, and troops. The kingdom’s two proximate opponents were the Turkish rulers of Damascus to the north-east and Fatimid Egypt to the south/south-west, whose forces operated out of Ascalon. Of the two, the Fatimid threat was by far the greatest problem for the Franks in that its rulers had the will to face the Franks in battle and the wealth to assemble big armies. Tughtakin, atabeg and effective ruler of Damascus, demonstrated nothing like the same resolve. The imperatives steering both the Fatimids’ and Tughtakin’s very different responses will be dealt with in a later section, but let it suffice to say that initially the nascent kingdom’s major threat came from the south. Indeed, of the thirteen incursions suffered by the kingdom during its first decade, the Fatimids either led or were involved in nine (Table 1.1). When the Franks were not fending off the Fatimids they were themselves involved in launching incursions on a range of fronts. The most conspicuous point to make about the Franks’ attacks during this early period is their frequency; thirty incursions between July 1099 and December 1109. Given that the 1  OV, vol. 5, 160. 2  For references to such attacks see: A. N. Palmer, ‘The history of the Syrian Orthodox in Jerusalem, Part Two: Queen Melisende and the Jacobite estates’, Oriens Christianus, 76 (1992), 74–94; AA, 838. For discussion see: J. Schenk, ‘Nomadic violence in the first Latin kingdom of Jerusalem and the military orders’, Reading Medieval Studies, 36 (2010), 35–55. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

Table 1.1  Incursions launched by or against the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187)3

Jerusalem (offensive) Jerusalem (defensive)

1099 (late)– 1109

1110–19

1120–19

1130–9

1140–9

1150–9

1160–9

1170–9

1180–July 1187

30 (5) 13

26 (8) 11

18 (9) 5

6 (2) 7

7 (2) 3

15 (3) 14

7 (3) 4

11 (1) 12

14 (1) 10

3  Bracketed numbers represent the number of fortified sites taken during these incursions. Please also note the following: (1) offensive campaigns for each country include campaigns waged by other friendly rulers using their territory as a base (such as Baldwin II’s campaigns on behalf of Antioch in the 1120s) and by extension campaigns waged by a country’s ruler operating out of another country. Likewise collaborative ventures launched by multiple states simultaneously have been counted statistically as one incursion per state. (2) The number of strongholds taken makes no allowance for the length of time this stronghold was held subsequently. (3) The number of strongholds taken does not include those acquired via diplomacy/treaties or strongholds seized by or from internal factions (in this case within the kingdom of Jerusalem).

22  The Crusader States and their Neighbours kingdom was itself suffering repeated attacks during this same period; the fact that its early rulers, Godfrey of Bouillon and later Baldwin I, managed to co-ordinate so much offensive campaigning represents an almost frantic level of military activity. They certainly had good reason for being so front-footed; they needed to maintain the momentum built up by the First Crusade and continue to convince their Turkish, Arab, and Fatimid neighbours (many of whom possessed far greater resources) to remain—or become- quiescent. The Franks’ initial goal seems to have been to persuade the rulers of the major ports to pay regular tribute to Jerusalem, thereby enabling Godfrey and Baldwin to expand—or at least to maintain—their limited military forces. These treaties included agreements with Arsuf, Caesarea, Ascalon, and Acre in 1100 for monthly payments payable in cash and mounts.4 Damascus and its sub-region region of Hawran both paid for peace in the same year.5 In 1101 even more cities offered tribute including Ascalon, Caesarea, Acre, and Tyre, but on this occasion Arsuf ’s tribute was refused because the kingdom was planning to attack.6 In 1106 Sidon paid Baldwin I 15,000 bezants to lift his siege and—seemingly from this point— began to make annual payments of 2000 dinars, which later became 6000 dinars in 1110.7 Predictably the number of tribute-paying city states decreased during the period 1109–1120 for the simple reason that so many of the coastal cities passed under Frankish rule. It is frequently said that the kingdom’s early rulers were determined to conquer the coastal ports, thereby enabling troops, pilgrims, resources, and traders to reach the Levant from Western Christendom.8 This is certainly true and 53  per cent of the incursions instigated by Godfrey or Baldwin I were against coastal targets. The fruits of his and Baldwin I’s campaigns were a series of conquests consisting of: Haifa (1100), Arsuf (1101), Caesarea (1101), Acre (1104), Tripoli (1109), Beirut (1110),9 and Sidon (1110). Clearly Jerusalem’s rulers recognized that their future survival hinged on the establishment of a strong supporting conduit from the west. Nevertheless, most of their endeavours proved ineffective, even with substantial support from pilgrim forces as well as from the Italian cities of Pisa, Genoa, and Venice. Indeed, of the Jerusalemites’ twenty-three recorded attempts to besiege a fortified settlement or castle (1099–1118), only eight succeeded (35 per cent).10 Typically towns and cities only fell after several major 4  AA, 502, 504.    5  AA, 506, 510.    6 AA, 560.   7  AA, 726; IQ, 101. 8  For an excellent analysis of Baldwin I’s ventures against the coastal cities see: S.  Edgington, Baldwin I of Jerusalem, 1100–1118, Rulers of the Latin East (Abingdon, 2019), 111–28. 9  Although please note that Baldwin was only present at the conclusion of this siege which, for much of its duration, had been carried out by Raymond of Toulouse and his successors. 10  These being: Haifa (1100), Arsuf (1101), Caesarea (1101), Acre (1104), Tripoli (1109), Beirut (1110), Sidon, (1110) and al-Farama (1118). Please note that the above statistics include co-operative ventures where Jerusalemite forces worked alongside other Frankish states. The above statistics also do not include raids against the hinterland surrounding towns or strongholds but only ventures where a town was actually captured (however briefly).

Frankish Expansion  23 assaults. Beirut and Acre fell on the second attempt; Sidon on the third; Arsuf on the fourth. Somewhat later in 1124 Tyre fell on the third attempt. Only the towns of Haifa and Caesarea fell on the first attempt. Seemingly the Frankish game-plan revolved on a long-term process of raids and sieges, grinding down the op­pos­ition. The major breakthrough in the first decade was surely the conquest of Acre in 1104. This city gave the Franks the major port that they had formerly lacked. Still, it was to be another six years before they gained another substantial harbour, Beirut in 1110.11 If the coast was the overriding priority for the kingdom, its rulers were also interested in the lands lying to their east and south-east.12 The first expedition into the Transjordan region is said to have occurred in 1100 and William of Tyre reports Godfrey of Bouillon striking up an early entente with the Bedouin including the establishment of commercial relations.13 The Bedouin proved uncertain allies and, over the next few decades, there are reports of their tribes working both for and against the Franks. Nonetheless, broadly speaking, they did develop a reciprocal accord which persisted until the time of Saladin. The Franks clearly saw potential in Transjordan and subsequently sent forces into the region, for a second time in 110014 and possibly again in 1101.15 These ventures opened a broader effort of eastwards expansion, particularly around the southern fringes of Damascene territory. To the north of Transjordan was the fertile Hawran region whose crops were routinely raided by the Franks throughout much of the twelfth century; early examples including two attacks in 1100.16 More importantly in 1105 Baldwin I marched to the east/south-east of Lake Tiberias to build a castle apparently called Al- ‘al.17 Although the castle’s precise location is unknown, such a stronghold would have enabled Baldwin to partially block Damascene intervention further south in Transjordan whilst providing a base for short-range incursions into the Hawran. It was presumably with such consequences in mind that Tughtakin of Damscus made sure to destroy the castle almost as soon as it was built.18 The 1105 campaign proved to be the opening move in a much more serious struggle for the Hawran and Transjordan which was followed up in 1106 with a major raid by Hugh of Tiberias.19 At some point over the next couple of years, Baldwin constructed another fortress at al-Habis (known as the cave of Sueth) on the southern slopes of the Yarmuk river valley (Edgington suggests in 11  For discussion on Beirut as a port and commercial centre see: D.  Jacoby, ‘Frankish Beirut: a minor economic centre’, Crusader Landscapes in the Medieval Levant: the Archaeology and History of the Latin East, ed. M. Sinibaldi et al. (Cardiff, 2016), 263–76. 12  The major study on this topic is: M. Sinibaldi, ‘Settlement in Crusader Transjordan (1100–1189): A Historical and Archaeological Study’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Cardiff, 2014). 13  WT, 448–9; AA, 504.    14 AA, 542–4.   15 WT, 464–6.   16  AA, 506. 17  The location of this castle was identified by Deschamps but this location has subsequently been identified as primarily a Bronze Age site. See: D. Pringle, Secular Buildings in the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: An Archaeological Gazetteer (Cambridge, 1997), 117. 18 IQ, 72.   19  IQ, 74–5; FC, 509–10; AA, 722.

24  The Crusader States and their Neighbours 1106–7; Pringle suggests c.1109).20 Tughtakin of Damascus was sufficiently worried by the situation along his southern borders in 1107 to attempt to implant a Turkmen tribe in Transjordan to keep the Franks at bay; a venture which ended promptly in disaster when Baldwin drove the tribe out of the region.21 Following further hostilities, in 1108 the two sides subsequently made a peace which divided the contested Hawran region between them (one-third to the Turks and twothirds to the Franks and local peasants).22 The treaty collapsed the following year to be replaced by a new treaty splitting the region equally between the two ­parties.23 This peace was equally short-lived and the following year Tughtakin seized al-Habis.24 From this point on, the struggle continued with the Franks making further incursions into Damascene territory25 and Transjordan. A major turning point in this conflict occurred in 1115—while Damascus and Jerusalem were at peace— when Baldwin founded the new castle of Monreal in Transjordan (much further south than his earlier fortresses).26 It seems likely that this castle was created to provide a central-point from which to achieve control over the area.27 In this way, it was probably anticipated that it would operate rather like some of the Norman castles constructed/refortified in the previous century in Italy and Sicily; the classic example here being San Marco through which Robert Guiscard ‘acquired all of Calabria’; using the stronghold as his staging post, supply base, and place of retreat.28 The following year Baldwin initiated a second expedition further embedding Frankish control and building more strongholds.29 It wasn’t until 1118 that he regained al-Habis, but when he did so, he had effectively secured his control over both Transjordan and the southern margins of the Hawran.30 On other frontiers, during the second decade of its existence, the kingdom of Jerusalem’s military behaviour reflects a rebalancing of priorities. In 1110 Baldwin I conquered both Beirut and Sidon and in 1112 he made a determined 20 H. Kennedy, Crusader Castles (Cambridge, 1994), 52; Pringle, Secular Buildings, 18; D. Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: a Corpus, vol. 1 (1993), 26; S.  Edgington, ‘Espionage and counter-espionage: an episode in the reign of Baldwin I of Jerusalem’, Crusader Landscapes in the Medieval Levant: the Archaeology and History of the Latin East, ed. M. Sinibaldi et al. (Cardiff, 2016), 160. 21  IQ, 81–2; AA. 744–6.    22  IQ, 92; IAA(C), vol. 1, 142.    23  IQ, 113. 24 IQ, 121.   25  IQ, 130–4; IAA(C), vol. 1, 164. 26  FC, 592–3; AA, 856. For context see also: M. Sinibaldi, ‘Settlement in the Petra region during the Crusader period: a summary of the historical and archaeological evidence’, Crusader Landscapes in the Medieval Levant: the Archaeology and History of the Latin East, ed. M. Sinibaldi et al. (Cardiff, 2016), 81–102. 27  See also: S. Tibble, Monarchy and Lordships in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1099–1291 (Oxford, 1989), 29–30. 28  Translation: Amatus of Montecassino, The History of the Normans, trans. P. Dunbar (Woodbridge, 2004), 142. Hailstone has demonstrated that Tancred used Beit She’an in a similar way during his sojourn in the kingdom of Jerusalem (prior to becoming the ruler of Antioch): P.Z.  Hailstone, Recalcitrant Crusaders? The Relationship between Southern Italy and Sicily, Crusading and the Crusader States: c.1060–1198, Advances in Crusades Research (Abingdon, 2020), 29. 29  FC, 594–6; Edgington, Baldwin I, 174.   30  IAA(C), vol. 1, 196.

Frankish Expansion  25 yet  unsuccessful attempt to conquer Tyre. Confronted by the fact of Tyre’s impregnability, Baldwin contented himself instead with the construction of siege castles around the city intended to maintain a loose blockade. With all the coastal cities north of Ascalon now in Frankish hands (bar Tyre) the coastal region with its fertile farmland was now under Jerusalemite control, while the construction of Scandalion outside Tyre diminished the risk of raids against Frankish estates. Another new dimension to Baldwin I’s policy from 1109 onwards was his commitment to supporting his northern Frankish neighbours. In the early years of his reign, Baldwin manifested a marked reluctance to leave his own kingdom (at least not for long-range campaigns), presumably out of fear of a major Fatimid attack. Fulcher states baldly that initially neither Antioch nor Jerusalem were able to support one another.31 Subsequently, even the major Antiochene/Edessan defeat at Harran in 1104 proved insufficient to send Baldwin marching north. The kingdom instead was a net recipient of aid and a request was sent to Tancred, ruler of Antioch asking for help in 1101 (although in the event it proved unnecessary)32 while in 1102 Tancred marched south following a Frankish defeat by the Fatimids.33 The only occasion when Jerusalemite forces supported another territory during this period was in 1109 when the leaders of all four Crusader states converged to complete the conquest of Tripoli. The pattern began to change however in the kingdom’s second decade as Fatimid pressure began to wane and in 1110, Baldwin I led an army north to support the county of Edessa. This was an unprecedented and bold move, taking Jerusalem’s army many hundreds of miles from their own frontiers; a choice which speaks of how confident Jerusalem had become in its relations with Damascus and Egypt. The trigger which precipitated Baldwin’s long northern march was the threat posed to Edessa by a large Turkish army assembled by Mawdud of Mosul.34 The following year, Baldwin marched again to the north; to ward off another major Turkish coalition whilst supporting Tancred of Antioch in his aspiration—ultimately unsuccessful—to seize the Banu Munqidh’s town of Shaizar.35 In both 1115 and 1119 Baldwin staged further trips to the north to support the northern states against major incoming expeditions led by Bursuq of Hamadhan and then by the Artuqid ruler Ilghazi. By return, the kingdom of Jerusalem received support from the Tripolitans in their sieges of Beirut and Sidon.36 By this stage, Tripoli had already acknowledged Jerusalem as its overlord and the two powers also co-operated in Jerusalem’s expeditions to the north. There were also occasions when both Antioch and Tripoli provided assistance and both states supported Jerusalem in 1113 against a Damascene attack on Tiberias.37 Historians have frequently noted the sense of competition between the

31 FC, 390.   32 FC, 420–4.   33 AA, 652–4.   34  AA, 796–8. 35 AA, 810.   36  FC, 534–6, 543–8; AA, 804.    37  AA, 836.

26  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Crusader States at this time, citing in particular a vicious conflict between Baldwin of Edessa and Tancred of Antioch in the autumn of 1108 (more about this below). Even so, this catalogue of co-operative ventures speaks equally of their ability to put aside their mutual differences, particularly when under threat of external invasion. A natural question to consider at this point is whether the kings of Jerusalem harboured any long-term goals. Were they devising their military policy based on short-term considerations, allowing their actions to be guided primarily by arising opportunities and threats, or was there an underlying masterplan steering their decision-making? Perhaps predictably, the answer seems to be a mixture of the two. As shown above, there was clearly a longstanding intention to secure the Levantine coast. The idea that this was a permanent and central objective, particularly in the early years, is a reasonably safe assumption given that the major coastal cities offered Jerusalem its only real chance of securing support from the west, while the fertile coastal plain addressed their deficiencies in food supply (and to some extent trade goods). Another long-term—if perhaps secondary— goal was to expand Frankish influence into the Transjordan region; a major incentive here being the relative lack of local control by any other state, despite Damascene attempts to intervene. The major question marks in the kingdom’s policies hang over his two main rivals: Damascus and Egypt. What role did they play in Baldwin’s schemes? Regarding Damascus, early in 1100 Duqaq (or more probably his atabeg Tughtakin) sought to make peace with Godfrey in Jerusalem using Tancred (then lord of Tiberias) as an intermediary. Tancred’s counter-proposal was to demand the surrender of Damascus and the Turks’ conversion to Christianity (he was refused).38 Whether this was a serious attempt at securing Damascus’ submission or whether it was merely an aggressive way to reply to the Turks’ requests for a peace-treaty is unclear. Either way, it was not long before Tancred departed from Jerusalem, travelling north to take control of Antioch and Baldwin I did not maintain any ambition towards Damascus itself. He was content to raid the Hawran and expand into Transjordan but he rarely attempted anything more. In 1104 Baldwin was given an opportunity to attempt a major blow against the city when a rebellion in Damascus led its ruler, Muhyi al-Din (who was struggling to exert his authority against his atabeg Tughtakin), to ask for Jerusalem’s help. Here was an opportunity to acquire substantial influence over the city, but no serious attempt was made to launch a co-operative campaign, even though Muhyi al-Din took refuge in the Jerusalemite court.39 Judging from the relations described above, it seems likely that the kingdom’s rulers had no immediate ambition to stage a major campaign against Damascus but were content to focus their attention on the coast and Transjordan. 38 AA, 510.   39  IQ, 64–5; AA, 706.

Frankish Expansion  27 Egypt is a rather different matter. It is well known that Baldwin I died in 1118 on his first and only campaign into the Nile Delta. He advanced with a small army (216 cavalry and 400 infantry) as far as the settlement of al-Farama, which his forces then sacked.40 A Coptic source claims that Baldwin was en route to attack Cairo and Albert of Aachen styles the campaign as an attempted conquest but given the smallness of Baldwin’s forces it does not seem likely that he had the military muscle to tackle so substantial a target.41 More likely, this was merely a raid and scouting expedition.42 The fact that in 1150 Jerusalem’s forces sacked alFarama without attempting any additional conquests would seem to confirm this view; suggesting that it was a target deemed suitable for a swift attack.43 Even so, it is very likely that Baldwin’s ambitions concerning Egypt were somewhat deeper than this single incursion might suggest. Certainly his brother Godfrey took the prospect of conquering Egypt seriously and during one of his attacks on Arsuf he apparently expressed the desire to seize the ‘kingdom of Babylon’.44 The earliest allusion to this ambition however dates back to the First Crusade when St Andrew is said to have appeared to Peter Desiderius advising him that one day Raymond of Toulouse would conquer ‘Alexandria and Babylon’; the possibility of conquering Egypt was then discussed a little while later (June 1099) at Ramla.45 Likewise, Orderic Vitalis expressed anger that the Franks did not acquire control over the city of Ascalon directly after the battle of Ascalon (1099) because had they done so, the city would have given them a staging point for the invasion of Egypt.46 In later years this objective re-emerged and in 1104, Baldwin offered the Genoese one-third of Cairo if they would assist him in its conquest.47 This is a very striking offer and it is difficult to know how seriously to take it. At this point, Baldwin was courting Genoese support and it may have been that by dangling the prospect of a hypothetical future conquest of Egypt, he would ensure their continued enthusiastic backing, even if a serious assault—at this point at least—was impractical. Even so, the level of detail contained in this offer, which includes clauses concerning the distribution of Cairo’s urban property, implies that at the very least this possible future venture was discussed at more than a mere as­pir­ ation­al level. The fact that in a charter issued the previous year, Baldwin described 40  AA, 862. 41  AA, 862; History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church known as the history of the Holy Church, trans. A. Khater and O. H. E. Khs.-Burmester, vol. 3:1 (Cairo, 1968), 35. 42  Murray and Barber draw the same conclusion. Murray’s work also provides a helpful overview of the Eastern Franks’ and their strategic ambitions towards Egypt: A. Murray, ‘The place of Egypt in the military strategy of the crusades, 1099–1221’, The Fifth Crusade in Context: the Crusading Movement in the Early Thirteenth Century, ed. E. J. Mylod et al., Crusades—Subsidia IX (Abingdon, 2017), 122; M. Barber, The Crusader States (New Haven and London, 2012), 116. 43  IM, 469. 44  Latin text: AA, 502. Godfrey apparently repeated this ambition at other times see: WT, 456 (UKJ, vol. 1, 103). 45  Latin text: RA, 131, 136.    46  OV, vol. 5, 186.    47  UKJ, vol. 1, 137–44.

28  The Crusader States and their Neighbours himself as the king of ‘Babylon and Asia’ serves to confirm this impression.48 Pooling the above, the most logical conclusion seems to be that Godfrey and Baldwin had long contemplated an invasion of Egypt but had been waiting for an opportunity—which never came—to implement this plan in earnest.

The First Decades: the County of Tripoli, 1099–1117 The county of Tripoli, lying directly to the north of the kingdom of Jerusalem also manifested ambitious military goals in its early history. The county’s origins probably date back to 1099 when Count Raymond of Toulouse begged his fellow leaders on the First Crusade to besiege the city of Tripoli.49 The city’s rulers, the Banu Ammar, had just been weakened by a Crusader victory over their forces outside the city’s walls and a short while previously Tripoli’s ruler Jalal al-Mulk had set up Raymond’s banners above the walls (probably an act of appeasement by the Banu Ammar, but from the Crusaders’ perspective banners were only erected in this way over conquered cities).50 On this occasion, Raymond’s plea was unsuccessful—the other Crusaders refused to help—but the ambition evidently persisted. In 1100 Godfrey of Bouillon seems to have been contemplating the city’s conquest and he included clauses planning for this eventuality in his dealings with the Venetians. Even so, he never got a chance.51 After the fall of Jerusalem, Raymond travelled north and briefly ruled the Byzantine-held city of Latakia before joining the 1101 Crusade—the next large wave of Crusaders to sweep across Anatolia towards Jerusalem. This campaign was a military disaster, but Raymond survived and set out for the Crusader States by ship, being shipwrecked in Cilicia and then briefly imprisoned in Antioch.52 He then marched south capturing the town of Tortosa, supported by the Antiochenes and the remnants of the crusading army. When the Crusaders continued to march south towards Jerusalem, Raymond stayed behind to govern Tortosa. Soon after, he drove away a major Damascene army which arrived in April 1102 by launching a surprise attack directly out of the town gates and into the enemy camp. He then (probably still in 1102) moved his forces south and laid siege to Tripoli.53 This endeavour was carried out with Byzantine support and 48  Latin text: UKJ, vol. 1, 128.    49  RA, 131. 50  RA, 107. Although note that Lewis has suggested that this story might be a fabrication: K. Lewis, The Counts of Tripoli and Lebanon in the Twelfth Century: Sons of St Gilles, Rulers of the Latin East (Abingdon, 2017), 15. 51  RRR, no. 31; UKJ, vol. 1, 105–6.    52  RC, 121–2. 53  Both Caffaro and Anna Comnena say that Raymond began to besiege Tripoli immediately after defeating the Damascenes and Ibn al-Qalanisi says Tripoli was already under attack before the Damascene army arrived in spring 1102 (AC, 317; Caffaro, ‘De liberatione civitatum orientis’, Annali Genovesi di Caffaro e de’suoi continuatori, ed. L. T. Belgrano, Fonti Storia d’Italia XI (Rome, 1890), 119; IQ, 55). Consequently it seems reasonable to date the commencement of the siege to 1102. Note, however, that Lewis suggests it began in 1103 (Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 22).

Frankish Expansion  29 Emperor Alexius Comnenus commanded that assistance be offered from his island of Cyprus (only a day’s sail away).54 Raymond further entrenched his pos­ ition by constructing a large siege castle called Mons Peregrinorum (Pilgrims’ Mount) to enforce his blockade and to provide a place of refuge should the Damascenes attack again.55 The construction of such fortifications was common practice both in Norman Sicily and Italy and also in other parts of Western Europe.56 Siege castles had been constructed at the siege of Antioch and Bohemond seems to have considered building several outside Aleppo in 1100.57 The siege persisted for many years, but Raymond and his heirs did not wait for the city’s fall to begin subduing the surrounding area. William of Tyre reports that Raymond began to extract tribute from neighbouring rulers, a statement corroborated by Ibn al-Furat who mentions Damascus paying tribute for Krak des Chevaliers and the region around Maysaf.58 Raymond also maintained continual pressure on Tripoli itself and by 1103 was referring to himself as the ‘count of Tripoli’.59 Soon after the commencement of the siege—possibly even before—Raymond’s forces began to probe along the coast and also inland round the shoulder of the Lebanese mountains and into the Homs Gap. Ibn al-Athir speaks of attacks against a fort in the vicinity of Rafaniyya in 1102, also against Krak des Chevaliers in 1103.60 These incursions were not unprecedented and Raymond had reconnoitred this region during his first advance south during the First Crusade. In 1103, however, he broke off the siege of Krak des Chevaliers on learning that Janah al-Dawla, ruler of Homs, had been murdered by the Nizaris (Assassins). The late ruler’s wife had apparently encouraged a Frankish takeover.61 Raymond’s response was to move immediately against Homs itself, which naturally would have constituted a much greater prize. Given the tiny size of Raymond’s existing holdings his confidence in striking against a town like Homs—without bothering to seize the intervening towns and strongholds—is remarkable and presumably speaks of the highly-aggressive post-First Crusade political climate. Raymond’s 54 AC, 318.   55  AC, 317–18; AA, 680. 56  For discussion on their use by the Normans in Sicily and Southern Italy see: R. Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century (Oxford, 1992), 94–123. For examples of their use in Northern France see: William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi: The Deeds of William, ed. R.  H.  C.  Davis and M. Chibnall, OMT (Oxford, 1998), 13, 25, 39; WM, vol. 1, 433. 57  For the siege of Antioch see: France, Victory in the East, 197–235. For the proposed construction of siege forts outside Aleppo see: KAD, 589. 58  WT, 486; Ibn al-Furat, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders: Selections from the Tārīkh al-Duwal wa’l-Mulūk, ed. and trans. U. and M. C. Lyons, intro. J. Riley-Smith, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1971), 144. 59 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 22. J. Richard, ‘Le chartrier de Sainte-Marie-Latine et l’establissement de Raymond de Saint-Gilles à Mont-Pèlerin’, Mélanges d’histoire du Moyen Âge dédiés à la mémoire de Louis Halphen (Paris, 1951), 610. 60 IAA(C), vol. 1, 60–1. Ibn al-Athir also mentions a serious attack against Acre but it seems unlikely that Raymond had the resources to maintain sieges on Tripoli and Acre simultaneously. It seems more likely that he was referring to the 1103 attack on Acre by the kingdom of Jerusalem. 61  KAD, 591.

30  The Crusader States and their Neighbours actions on this occasion are reminiscent in their boldness of Tancred’s earlier demand that Damascus capitulate unconditionally to Frankish control or Baldwin I’s agreement with the Genoese, in which they carved up the Nile Delta. In later years, Frankish commanders would be far more conservative when selecting their military targets. Raymond’s ambition to conquer Homs again probably dates back to the First Crusade and during his advance south from Antioch in early 1099, his soldiers purchased horses from Homs; Raymond himself later held negotiations with Janah al-Dawla’s representatives and secured safe passage through his territory. Ibn al-Athir claims that he even attacked the town at this point.62 In 1103, however, Raymond’s attack was foiled by the arrival of Damascene reinforcements (Table 1.2).63 The following year Raymond’s troops took the small coastal port of Jubail with Genoese help.64 They must also have secured control over Rafaniyya at some point before 1105 because it was attacked and reconquered by Tughtakin of Damascus in the spring of this year.65 In time Rafaniyya would become a major point of geopolitical contention between the county and its neighbours, passing repeatedly from one side to another. Returning to the siege of Tripoli itself, the Banu Ammar proved to be active defenders of their city: repeatedly attacking the besieging Franks; sending their ships to assist other beleaguered coastal cities; and despatching appeals for help. In 1105 one of their sorties against the Franks resulted in the death of Raymond of Toulouse when fire consumed the building on which he was standing, causing the roof to collapse.66 Raymond was survived by two sons but neither was in a position to inherit immediately: Alfonso Jordan (then present outside Tripoli but only an infant who was later taken back to the West), and Bertrand (old enough to take power but far away in Southern France). Consequently, it was Count William Jordan of Cerdagne—Raymond’s first cousin once removed—who assumed control outside Tripoli.67 He too was an active campaigner and several reports of his expeditions survive from his short time in power.68 In 1108 he is mentioned fighting with the

62  IAA(C), vol. 1, 18. For other accounts of the Crusaders’ interactions with Homs see: RA, 103, 107; GF, 82–3. 63  IQ, 58. 64 For discussion on the dating of this conquest see: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 53–4. For the 1104  dating see: Caffaro, ‘Annales Ianuenses’, Annali Genovesi di Caffaro e de’suoi continuatori, ed. L.T. Belgrano, Fonti Storia d’Italia XI (Rome, 1890), 14; IQ, 61; AA, 670. A grant of property in Jubail was made in 1103 to the Abbey of St Victor in Marseilles. Presumably this was an anticipatory grant made as part of the preparations for the town’s conquest: RRR, no. 67. 65 IQ, 69.   66  IAA(C), vol. 1, 104. 67  Although his precise role and title—whether caretaker for Raymond’s sons or ruler in his own right—is unclear: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 29. 68  For a detailed survey see: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 30–4.

Table 1.2  Incursions launched by or against the county of Tripoli (1099–1187)

Tripoli (offensive) Tripoli (defensive)

1099 (late)– 1109

1110–19

1120–9

1130–9

1140–9

1150–9

1160–9

1170–9

1180–July 1187

12 (4) 5

7 (5) 1

4 (2) 0

2 (1) 5

1 (1) 1

4 (1) 2

3 (1) 3

8 (0) 1

2 (1) 1

32  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 1.3  Armies raised by the county of Tripoli (1102–17) Battle of Tortosa (1102) Commencement of siege of Tripoli (1102) Raid on Shaizar (c.1108) Damascene invasion (1109) Expeditionary force to the north (1115) Skirmish in the Biqa valley (1116–17)

300 soldiers—seemingly knights (Ibn al-Athir and Bar Hebraeus) 400 troops including cavalry and infantry (Ralph of Caen) 300 cavalry and 200 turcopoles (Usama ibn Munqidh) 1000 armoured cavalry (Albert of Aachen) 300 knights (Ibn al-Qalanisi and Ibn al-Athir) 200 cavalry and 1000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 3000 Frankish dead (Ibn al-Qalanisi)

IAA(C), vol. 1, 60; BH, vol. 1, 238 RC, 121 UIM, 61 AA, 774 IQ, 88; IAA(C), vol. 1, 143 AA, 854 IQ, 155

Munqidhs of Shaizar,69 and was even able to collect tribute from Christian fam­ilies living nearby.70 More importantly, in 1109 he conquered the stronghold of Arqa (a longstanding goal for the Franks dating back to the First Crusade), whilst driving off a Damascene relief army. He later raided into Damascene territory.71 Table 1.3 contains the various estimates supplied by the surviving sources for the size of the Tripolitan military. Many of the estimates it contains originated from plausible sources (either contemporaries or eyewitnesses) and so it seems likely that the army grew from a few hundred to a force numbering in the low thousands (perhaps 2–3000 at its largest extent). Tripoli itself fell in the same year as Arqa through the combined efforts of all the Crusader States. It was during the final stage of this lengthy siege that the late Count Raymond’s eldest son Bertrand arrived with a large force demanding that William Jordan cede control to him. The upshot was a bitter argument followed by a temporary division of territory. Bertrand acquired the bulk of the county, but William was permitted to retain control over the territories he had conquered during his brief rule (most importantly Arqa).72 These negotiations were arranged by Baldwin I of Jerusalem and during these dealings Bertrand swore to  ac­know­ledge Baldwin as his overlord; William Jordan by contrast swore to become Tancred’s man.73 The 1109 siege of Tripoli and the tense diplomacy that took place among the attending Frankish leaders represents a formative time for the Crusader States. In the north, Antioch was advancing on all fronts and in the south Jerusalem was

69  UIM, 60–1 (for dating see: 290). 70  I am indebted to Kevin Lewis for drawing my attention to this document: Cartulaire Général de l’Ordre des Hospitaliers de S.  Jean de Jérusalem: 1100–1310, ed. J.  Delaville Le Roulx, vol. 1 (Paris, 1894), 74–5. 71  IQ, 88; AA, 774.    72 AA, 782.   73  AA, 782; WT, 508.

Frankish Expansion  33 both pushing into Transjordan and cutting a path along the coast. Frankish territories that had begun as isolated and embattled cities/encampments were now swelling to engulf much of the coastal region and, increasingly, as their frontiers began to approach one another—squeezing out the intervening territory— their rival leaders felt the need to demarcate their various zones of interest. The 1109 agreement represents a notable—and surprisingly peaceful—attempt to define both the principality and kingdom’s respective zones of influence over the smaller Tripolitan county which lay between their lands; Jerusalem becoming suzerain for the south, Antioch for the north.74 In the event, however, the newly established balance of power was short-lived. William Jordan was murdered and Bertrand moved to seize his former lands. Tancred then in 1110 moved decisively south seizing Tortosa (one of William Jordan’s towns), conquering Krak des Chevaliers (not a Tripolitan possession, but a stronghold located in a zone which Tripoli had formerly sought to control).75 Tensions between Tripoli and Antioch rose the following year when Bertrand signalled his readiness to support a proposed Byzantine expedition against Tancred (which never actually occurred).76 There were the makings here of a nasty dispute but Bertrand’s death and the decision to despatch his son/heir Pons to be raised in the Antiochene court seems to have quelled these problems.77 After Pons’ arrival in Antioch, Tancred was prepared to grant him a swath of strongholds on his southern border including: Tortosa, Maraclea, Chastel Blanc, and Krak des Chevaliers (although all these locations were to be held in his name).78 Pons later married Tancred’s widow Cecilia, daughter of King Philip I of France, in the summer of 1115.79 This alliance had Tancred’s blessing, which he had granted shortly before his death.80 Over the next few years the question of Tripoli’s status vis-à-vis its more-powerful Frankish neighbours would re-emerge, most notably when Count Pons of Tripoli asserted his independence against Jerusalem in 1122 and again in 1132.81 In the long run, after a major defeat in 1119, the principality of Antioch was not in a positon to compete with Jerusalem over Tripoli in same way as it had previously. Subsequently, Tripoli generally preserved a status somewhere between quasi and genuine independence, but the steady growth of the kingdom of Jerusalem ultimately destined the county to exist to varying degrees within a Jerusalemite orbit.82 From a military perspective, Bertrand initially proved himself to be an active campaigner and, immediately following the conquest of Tripoli, he marched inland and besieged Rafaniyya (lost to Tughtakin in 1105). The assault was not pressed home with much determination, however, because the Damascenes 74  For discussion see: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 41–9.   75  IQ, 99; Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 46. 76 AC, 403.   77 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 80. 78 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 76–68; IQ, 127.    79  WM, vol. 1, 700. 80 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 82.   81 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 91–100. 82 Lewis, Count of Tripoli, passim.

34  The Crusader States and their Neighbours arrived soon after to reinforce the town. This stalemate forced all parties to the table (possibly Bertrand’s intention all along) and, in return for a cessation of raiding, the Franks gained several territories along with one-third of the crops raised in the Biqa valley.83 From this point onwards (until c.1124), Bertrand and later Pons conducted most of their military activity in co-operation with the other Crusader States, supporting: Jerusalem in its conquest of Beirut and Sidon in 1110;84 the northern Crusader states against major Turkish assaults in 1110, 1111, 1115, and 1119;85 Jerusalem against a major Turkish attack in 1113;86 Jerusalem against a Fatimid invasion in 1118; and Jerusalem again to conquer Tyre in 1124.87 Only on a handful of occasions did the county make war to expand its own borders, most notably in 1115 when its forces seized Rafaniyya from Tughtakin only to lose it again almost immediately afterwards.88 A later raid into the Biqa in 1116–17 ended disastrously when a combined force including troops from Mosul and Damascus conducted a surprise attack on the Franks’ camp, inflicting heavy casualties.89 Reviewing Tripoli’s military behaviour during this period, rather like the kingdom of Jerusalem, the county’s early rulers clearly manifested a powerful desire to expand both along the coast and inland. The county’s main coastal conquests were naturally Jubail, Tortosa, and Tripoli itself. Arqa might also be added to this list, although it is not a port, being located a short distance back from the shoreline. Inland, the county’s drive through the Homs Gap was pursued energetically by Raymond I and William Jordan and somewhat less so by Bertrand and Pons. Their goal seems to have been to conquer Rafaniyya and, by extension, to advance on Homs. Homs seems to have been a long-term target. This is evidenced by Raymond’s attempts to seize the town in his early years but there is evidence that it’s conquest remained an ongoing aspiration. Albert of Aachen reports that when William Jordan took power he inherited the ‘land and towns of Camolla’ (Homs),90 and that Bertrand demanded rights to these same lands soon after his arrival in 1109.91 Exactly what control Tripoli exercised over Homs and its hinterland at this point is unclear. There were times when the Tripolitans could demand tribute and even in the 1140s the counts had fishing rights on freshwater fisheries near Homs.92 Subsequently, as will be discussed in later chapters, the counts pursued this objective energetically and, even during the thirteenth century, the Hospitallers operating out of the Homs Gap drove relentlessly—but never successfully— against both Homs and Hama until the 1260s.93 83 IQ, 93.   84  AA, 786–8, 804.    85  AA, 792, 816; WT, 530; FC, 626. 86  FC, 570. For discussion: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 76–7. 87  FC, 618, 739.    88  IAA(C), vol. 1, 173–4; IQ, 150–1; KAD, 610.    89  IQ, 154. 90  Translation taken from: AA, 711. For further discussion on this subject see: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 5, para.23 (online edition). 91  AA, 780. 92  Cartulaire Général de l’Ordre des Hospitaliers de S. Jean de Jérusalem: 1100–1310, ed. J Delaville Le Roulx, vol. 1 (Paris, 1894), 116–18. 93 J. Riley-Smith, The Knights Hospitaller in the Levant, c.1070–1309 (Basingstoke, 2012), 91–2.

Frankish Expansion  35

The First Decades: the Principality of Antioch, 1099–1115 In their early years, the Antiochene Franks proved to be every bit as aggressive as their southern neighbours. Until the autumn of 1100 the principality was ruled by Bohemond of Taranto and, like Godfrey in Jerusalem, he recognized the need to secure a major port. The most obvious target was Byzantine Latakia which Bohemond besieged in the summer of 1099 until he was compelled to desist by crusading forces on their return journey from Jerusalem back to Western Christendom.94 Subsequently, Bohemond advanced inland raiding Apamea,95 seizing Sarmin96 and beating off an Aleppan force at Kella; a victory which led to further territorial gains.97 His most ambitious move, however, was to attack Aleppo itself; a tantalizing target only two days journey distant from Antioch.98 This was no mere raid. Kamal al-Din noted that Bohemond planned to turn the mausoleums which lay outside the city walls into siege castles; an act not dissimilar to the conversion of a Muslim cemetery outside Antioch into a siege fort in 1098.99 The only reason that Bohemond called off this offensive was because he received a call for help from Gabriel, ruler of Melitene.100 The city of Melitene lay far to the north, but it was also a vital strategic location, much coveted by both the Anatolian Seljuks and Danishmendids. Notably, Gabriel’s appeal seems to have been coupled with an offer to hand the city over to Bohemond.101 The Antiochene army duly marched north, but was ambushed en route by the Danishmendids and Bohemond was taken captive. Antioch did not have to wait for long, however, for a replacement ruler because in the spring of 1101 Bohemond’s nephew Tancred arrived in Antioch to take his place. Tancred showed very little enthusiasm for securing his uncle’s release; investing his energies instead in the conquest of further territory. In April 1101 he was in Cilicia seeking to affirm Antioch’s control over the region. His interest in Cilicia isn’t surprising; it was a fertile agricultural region containing several major ports. Previously, Tancred had led a flying column into Cilicia while the First Crusade was advancing toward Antioch. During this expedition, he and Baldwin

94  AA, 482–4. For a helpful discussion on Latakia’s complex history during the First Crusade, prior to it coming back under Byzantine control in 1099 see: J. H. Pryor, ‘A view from the masthead: the First Crusade from the sea’, Crusades, 7 (2008), 106–12. 95  IQ, 49. 96  It isn’t possible to date the Frankish conquest of Sarmin precisely. Ibn al-Athir reports the incident but isn’t clear when it took place (IAA(C), vol. 1, 102). Kamal al-Din, however, suggests that it was already in Frankish hands in 1100 before the battle of Kella (KAD, 588). 97  KAD, 588. 98  Several authors report this distance see: RA, 49; Andrew of Longjumeau’s report of his first mission to the Mongols contained in: Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. H. R. Luard, vol. 6, RS LVII (London, 1882), 116. 99  RA, 61; France, Victory in the East, 254.   100  KAD, 589. 101  Asbridge has, probably rightly, concluded that Gabriel’s offer was not to simply give the city to Bohemond but to accept Bohemond as his overlord. Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 51.

36  The Crusader States and their Neighbours of Boulogne gained control over most of the major cities. It isn’t clear in 1101 whether he found it necessary to fully reconquer the major cities of Tarsus, Adana, and Mamistra by military means or whether he simply re-asserted Antioch’s ongoing control.102 The most likely scenario probably lies somewhere between these two points. Tancred had left garrisons to maintain his uncle’s authority in the region during the Crusade and he instituted a new law code in Mamistra.103 Whether any of these garrisons survived is unclear but Ralph of Caen mentions that the Greeks had caused the area to fall away from Frankish control so it seems likely that these contingents had been forced to withdraw (even though he supplies little information about how this Byzantine restoration was achieved). Given that the April 1101 expedition is described as brief in duration it seems likely that this was a forcible restatement of his authority backed by military force rather than a straightforward military reconquest (which would have taken far longer). Tancred also continued his uncle’s drive to secure control over the fertile Syrian coastal strip further to the south, initiating a lengthy but ultimately successful siege of Latakia in the summer of 1101 and making a further failed attempt on Jabala.104 In these early years, Tancred seems to have felt sufficiently secure in his authority to send forces to aid Edessa against Sokman (Artuqid)105 and then to march south in person to aid Jerusalem against the Fatimids in 1102.106 Tancred’s brief but bullish sojourn in power ended in May 1103 when Bohemond was released from captivity. Bohemond was not impressed by his nephew’s lacklustre commitment to securing his release and Tancred lost almost all his land and power.107 Bohemond’s behaviour over the following months betrays an ongoing desire to apply pressure on Aleppo, demanding tribute from Ridwan (the city’s Turkish ruler) and then working with the Edessans to besiege Harran (one of Aleppo’s satellite towns). This latter campaign ended in disaster, however, with the defeat of the Edessan/Antiochene forces at the hands of their Turkish foes at the battle of Harran. Baldwin of Bourcq, count of Edessa was taken captive. Fulcher of Chartres presents this defeat as a consequence of the squabbling between the Frankish leaders.108 Exactly why these leaders were arguing is not clear, but it stands in stark contrast to the substantial mutual support rendered by these Frankish states in earlier years. With Edessa now lacking a leader, Tancred was instructed to take control. For his part, Bohemond withdrew to Western Christendom, seeking to raise an army that he would later hurl across the Adriatic against Alexius I 102  RC, 120. For discussion see: Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 52. 103  RC, 45; RA, 55–6.    104  Latakia: RC, 120–1. Jabala: IAA(C), vol. 1, 38–9. 105  ASC1, 76.   106 AA, 652.   107  RC, 123–4. 108  FC, 475 (so does: ASC1, 79). Other authors perhaps hint at divisions when they say that the Frankish leaders became physically separated during the campaign: IAA(C), vol. 1, 79–80; ME, 193.

Table 1.4  Incursions launched by or against the principality of Antioch (1099–1187)

Antioch (offensive) Antioch (defensive)

1099 (late)– 1109

1110–19

1120–9

1130–9

1140–9

1150–9

1160–9

1170–9

1180–July 1187

26 (17) 18

19 (11) 8

12 (4) 13

10 (3) 18

13 (2) 14

9 (1) 5

2 (0) 2

5 (0) 1

2 (0) 2

38  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Comnenus. In doing so, he yielded authority in Antioch back to Tancred.109 So, in a stunning reversal of fortune, Tancred, now with both Antioch and Edessa under his control, found himself ruling two states simultaneously. In the wake of Harran, Antioch was repeatedly attacked both by the Aleppans and by the Byzantines; powers which had played no part in the battle but which now seized the opportunity to assert their own interests against their weakened adversary. The Armenians in Cilicia and some parts of northern Syria also took the opportunity to rebel, the former handing themselves over to the Byzantines.110 Latakia was retaken by a Greek force led by Kantakouzenos whose troops raided up and down the Levantine coast.111 For a moment it must have seemed that Antioch’s future was hanging in the balance, but Tancred displayed his characteristic ebullience and defeated Aleppo in battle at Artah in 1105, later moving to seize Apamea the following year.112 He also seems to have re-secured Mamistra along with some parts of Cilicia in 1106–7 and retook Latakia from the Greeks in 1108.113 By this stage, Antioch had regained much of its lost ground and in 1108 Tancred began to look south towards Shaizar and Banyas. In the summer of 1108 Tancred found himself at odds with Baldwin of Bourcq (count of Edessa) who had secured his release from captivity, having been captured at the battle of Harran. Tancred had clearly become accustomed to treating Edessa’s lands as if they were his own and the two leaders came to blows before Tancred ultimately yielded authority. Their disputes were later resolved at the conclusion of the siege of Tripoli in 1109 when all four leaders of the Crusader States came together to settle their grievances. As shown by Table 1.4, after suffering an initial flurries of incursions, mostly from Aleppo and the Greeks, Antioch suffered very few major attacks for over a decade after c.1105 and was able to maintain an almost permanently aggressive stance. On his southern borders Tancred took Jabala and Krak des Chevaliers whilst continuing to apply pressure on Shaizar. In 1108–9 Antioch lost Mamistra following a rebellion but in c.1110 much of Cilicia was reconquered with Genoese assistance.114 On the Aleppan frontier, Tancred took the major frontier fortress of al-Atharib in a siege lasting from December 1110–January 1111.115 He took the nearby stronghold of Zardana immediately after.116 Ridwan was then forced to accept a new treaty, agreeing to pay 20,000 dinars along with ten horses 109  ASC1, 80; AA, 694. 110  For rebellions in Syria: KAD, 592. For the rebellion in/Byzantine conquest of Cilicia see: AC, 329; RC, 126. 111  AC, 327. 112  Battle of Artah: IQ, 69–70; AA, 704. Conquest of Apamea: AA, 734–40; IQ, 72–3. For discussion: Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 60. 113 Reconquest of Cilicia: AC, 335–6 (for discussion on dating the reconquest see: Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 62). Reconquest of Latakia: RC, 130–1. 114  Rebellion: AA, 778. Reconquest: IQ, 99; Caffaro, ‘Annales Ianuenses’, 15. 115  KAD, 597; IQ, 105.    116  IAA(C), vol. 1, 153–4.

Frankish Expansion  39 per annum; an undertaking that he was only able to fulfil by selling many of his own properties within Aleppo.117 With this track record of success, Tancred attempted the conquest of a much larger target: the Banu Munqidh’s town of Shaizar. He moved his forces against the town in 1111, supported by Jerusalem, Edessa, and Kogh Vasil (an Armenian lord).118 Unlike his previous raids against the town, his commitment to this venture is highlighted by the construction of a siege fort; an act indicating that he was in earnest. In the event, this expedition was only thwarted by the timely arrival of a Turkish coalition led by Mawdud of Mosul. Ultimately, Antioch never captured Shaizar but it remained committed to this goal and, as late as 1157, Antioch’s ruler was still claiming that should Shaizar be taken it could rightfully be claimed by the principality.119 This defeat seems to have curbed Tancred’s ambitions in this direction and he spent the next year campaigning in the north, in the vicinity of Antioch’s northern bastion of Marash. This town—in Antiochene hands since c.1108—had weathered several attacks in recent years from the Anatolian Turks and in 1112 Tancred worked to expand his presence in the north at the expense of his former ally, the Armenian lord Kogh Vasil, who had attacked his lands a little while previously.120 These hostilities only came to an end when Tancred became ill, later dying on 11 December 1112. Tancred’s successor was Roger of Salerno, a commander who proved himself to be every bit as pugilistic as his forebear. In 1113 he was in the south, helping to buttress the kingdom of Jerusalem against another campaign launched by Mawdud of Mosul121 and then in the summer of 1115 he worked in co-operation with a range of both Frankish and local Turkish rulers to fend off another major invasion instigated by Sultan Mohammed into Syria, on this occasion led by Bursuq of Hamadhan. This campaign ended in his resounding Antiochene victory at Tell Danith on 14 September 1115.122 In the wake of this battle, Antioch achieved a position bordering on hegemony in the Northern Syrian region. Aleppo was no longer in a position to resist him and Mosul, although Roger couldn’t have known it at the time, would not be sending any more armies for many years. The time was rapidly approaching for him to attempt the conquest of Aleppo (a topic that will be picked up in the next chapter). A key issue in any discussion on Antioch’s military history is the question of the size of its army. Table  1.5 captures the estimates offered by contemporary 117  IQ, 106; KAD, 598; T. El-Azhari, The Saljūqs of Syria during the Crusades 463–549 A.H./1070–1154 A.D. (Berlin, 1997), 130. 118  KAD, 601; AA, 816.    119  WT, 837. 120  Marash had formerly been held by the county of Edessa but was claimed by Tancred’s lieutenant Richard (Tancred’s representative in Edessa 1104–8) in c.1108. G. Beech, ‘The Crusader lordship of Marash in Armenian Cilicia, 1104–1149’, Viator, 27 (1996), 40. Hailstone has demonstrated that this was probably a different Richard to Richard of Principate who returned to Western Christendom in advance of Bohemond of Taranto in 1104: Hailstone, Recalcitrant Crusaders, 45–46. 121 AA, 840.   122  WC, 73–5.

40  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 1.5  Armies raised by the principality of Antioch including allied forces (1099–1187) Melitene campaign (1100) Relief of the kingdom of Jerusalem (1102) Battle of Harran (1104)

300 knights (Albert of Aachen) 5000 troops (Ibn al-Athir) Antiochene and Edessan forces: 500 cavalry and 1000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 3000 cavalry and 7000 infantry—Antioch only (Albert of Aachen) 10,000 troops—the combined army (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 12,000 Frankish dead—presumably both Edessa and Antiochene forces (Ibn al-Athir) Relief force sent to 300 cavalry and 500 infantry (Albert of Edessa (1104) Aachen) Battle of Artah Antiochene and Edessan forces: 1000 cavalry (1105) and 9000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) Campaign against 700 cavalry and 1000 infantry (Albert of Apamea (1106) Aachen) Battle between 1000 cavalry and infantry—Antioch Antioch/Aleppo (Matthew of Edessa) and Edessa/ 1500 Frankish cavalry (Ibn al-Athir and Bar Jawuli (1108) Hebraeus) Siege of Tripoli 700 cavalry—Antiochene contingent (Albert (1109) of Aachen) Relief of Edessa 1500 armoured knights (milites) (Albert of (1110) Aachen) Campaign against Antiochene and Edessan forces: Joscelin of Mawdud of Mosul Courtenay: 100 knights and 50 infantry, (1111) Baldwin of Bourcq: 200 cavalry and 100 infantry, Pagan of Saruj: 50 cavalry and 30 infantry, Richard of Marash: 60 cavalry and 100 infantry, Engelger of Apamea: 200 cavalry as well as many other leaders with unspecified contingents. (Albert of Aachen) Relief of Jerusalem 700 cavalry and 500 infantry—later 400 (1113) cavalry and 600 infantry (Albert of Aachen) Muster at Talamria Antiochene and Edessan forces: 10,000 cavalry (1115) and infantry (Albert of Aachen) Battle of Tell 500 knights and 2000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir) Danith (1115) 2000 warriors (Walter the Chancellor) 700 cavalry (Matthew of Edessa) 500 cavalry (Bar Hebraeus) Field of Blood 600 Frankish cavalry, 500 Armenian (1119) horsemen, 400 infantry and 10,000 other troops (Matthew of Edessa) Over 20,000 horse and foot (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 700 knights and 3000 infantry (Walter the Chancellor and William of Tyre) 3000 cavalry and 9000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir) 7000 Troops (Orderic Vitalis) 7000 Frankish casualties (Fulcher of Chartres) 15,000 casualties (Kamal al-Din)

AA, 524 IAA(C), vol. 1, 32 AA, 652 AA, 690 IQ, 60 IAA(C), vol. 1, 80 AA, 698. AA, 702, 704 AA, 736 ME, 201 IAA(C), vol. 1, 141; BH, vol. 1, 242 AA, 782 AA, 794 AA, 814

AA, 838–40 AA, 854 IAA(C), vol. 1, 173 WC, 67 ME, 219 BH, vol. 1, 247 ME, 224 IQ, 160 WC, 88; WT, 557 IAA(C), vol. 1, 204 OV, 6, 107 FC, 621 KAD, 618

Frankish Expansion  41 War with Ilghazi (1120) Battle of Inab (1149) Capture of Reynald of Châtillon (1160) Battle of Harim (1164)

1000 cavalry and lots of infantry (Kamal al-Din) 4000 cavalry with lances and 1000 infantry (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 1000 troops (Matthew of Edessa) 13,000 cavalry and infantry—total allied force (Bar Hebraeus) 10,000 Frankish casualties (Ibn al-Athir) 600 cavalry and 5000 infantry—Frankish forces only (Anonymous Syriac Chronicle) 600 knights and 12,000 infantry (Letter of Geoffrey Fulcher)123

KAD, 624 IQ, 291 ME, 279 BH, vol. 1, 288 IAA(C), vol. 2, 148 ASC2, 303

writers for many different Antiochene campaigns. Many of these estimates are plausible—to varying degrees—in that they were either: offered by eyewitness, based on eyewitness testimony, or broadly correspond to estimates offered by other entirely unrelated sources. It should be noted that some writers only supplied figures for Antioch’s knightly contingents, but the principality’s forces nearly always contained both infantry and frequently Armenian allies, who are often not listed. So, for example, Albert of Aachen’s claim that Bohemond set out to relieve Melitene with 300 knights, almost certainly indicates a broader force probably including several thousand infantry and may therefore be more compatible with Ibn al-Athir’s suggestion that the total force numbered 5000 than might first appear. Extrapolating/guesstimating from this data, it seems likely that Antioch’s army probably numbered in the low thousands in the wake of the First Crusade, but rose steadily in later years to the point at which it could muster a maximum of around 10,000 troops by the time of the battle of the Field of Blood in 1119 (discussed below). This would have included a substantial contingent of allied Armenian forces and a central contingent of around 4–6000 Frankish troops. Turning to the question of Antioch’s long-term goals it is necessary to examine whether the principality’s rulers were guided by an over-arching objective or was their conduct driven instead by short-term goals? Like Jerusalem, the answer seems to be a mixture of the two. On one hand, the need to rebuild after the defeat at Harran in 1104 and Antioch’s assertive incursions to the south in 1109, in response to Tripoli’s rapid expansion into the Homs Gap, should probably be characterized as short-term and responsive. Having said this, the sustained interest of Antioch’s rulers in Cilicia, the Syrian coastline, and Aleppo was not co-incidental. Possession of a major port was essential to secure supply lines to Western Europe 123  ‘Epistolarum volumen regis Ludovici VII’, Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, ed. M.-J.-J. Brial, vol. 16 (Paris, 1878), 60.

42  The Crusader States and their Neighbours and ports such as Latakia represented a major source of revenue. The coastline was among the most fertile areas in the region and, in later decades, would become heavily settled and intensively farmed.124 Shielded to some degree by the mountainous region inland, the coastal plain was also reasonably secure from external attack; again making it highly desirable from an economic perspective. Likewise, Cilicia also had the virtue of being rich and fertile and populated by Armenian Christians, who had a troubled relationship with the Antiochene Franks, but nonetheless often rendered military support. The city of Aleppo, however, seems to have been the most significant objective for the Antiochene Franks and also the most challenging. Heavily fortified and with a large population, the city represented a formidable obstacle. The city’s overthrow had been contemplated as early as 1099–1100, when Guibert of Nogent reports Baldwin of Bourcq (then a First Crusader, later count of Edessa and king of Jerusalem) discussing its conquest.125 Islamic authors began to report the region’s Turkish rulers fearing the city’s overthrow as early as 1106.126 Likewise, Bohemond’s brief attempt to establish siege castles outside its ramparts in 1100 underlines his desire for the city’s conquest. Nevertheless, Tancred’s policy was more cautious and, by the time of his death in 1112, while he had advanced Antioch’s frontier considerably towards Aleppo, he had made very little attempt at direct conquest. That said, by 1112 Antioch was rapidly achieving a position of ascendancy as the region’s dominant military force. It controlled a series of raiding bases facing Aleppo and in 1112 Tancred had almost managed to take the nearby town of Azaz. The Antiochene conquest of Zardana in 1111 even caused the inhabitants of Balis (a town sited on a major crossing of the Euphrates far to the east of Aleppo) and Manbij to flee.127 They clearly knew that the Franks had ambitions to seize the Aleppan region. Thus, he may not have attempted the conquest of Aleppo directly but his policies had transformed its overthrow into an increasingly achievable goal. Antioch’s military objectives are complicated by a fault-line dating back to the First Crusade. As Pryor and Jeffries have argued, while the Crusaders were gathering at Constantinople (1096–7), it seems likely that Alexius and Bohemond put together a deal for the division of Northern Syria.128 According to their argument, Alexius promised Bohemond that if the First Crusade should succeed in returning Antioch to Byzantine control then Bohemond could claim a territory in the land beyond the city (centred on Aleppo and Edessa); operating essentially as a form of buffer state for the Byzantine frontier. Any possibility that this agreement 124  For a thorough analysis of Frankish settlement in this region see: B.  Major, Medieval Rural Settlements in the Syrian Coastal Region (12th and 13th Centuries), Archaeolingua Central European Archaeological Heritage Series IX (Oxford, 2015). 125 GN, 338.   126  IAA(C), vol. 1, 101.    127  IAA(C), vol. 1, 153. 128  J. H. Pryor and M. J. Jeffreys, ‘Alexios, Bohemond, and Byzantium’s Euphrates frontier: a tale of two Cretans’, Crusades, 11 (2012), 31–86.

Frankish Expansion  43 might be put into effect was naturally destroyed following the conquest of Antioch when Bohemond took control for himself, thereby denying the Greeks any claim to the city. In later years, there is little to indicate that either Bohemond or Tancred felt any responsibility to maintain this agreement and the Franks frequently clashed with Byzantine forces over Latakia and Cilicia. Alexius, however, had evidently not forgotten this pact because when he defeated Bohemond’s attack against the empire in 1108 he seems to have endeavoured to resurrect parts of the earlier agreement. According to the terms of the subsequent treaty of Devol, Bohemond was permitted to retain Antioch but only if he handed back the other areas (Cilicia and the coastal Latakia region) and swore an oath of allegiance to the emperor.129 Bohemond also gained rights to conquer Aleppo as well as neighbouring settlements. Again, this agreement was never implemented, but it is notably that in a later campaign this kind of deal remerged. In 1137, John II Comnenus made an agreement with the Antiochene Franks that if the Byzantines could conquer the Aleppan region (as well as neighbouring towns) then the Franks would take possession of these new conquests and Antioch would be handed back to the Greeks.130 Given the similarities between the terms of this deal and previous iterations, it appears that the Byzantine emperors long harboured aspirations to negotiate the return of Antioch whilst maintaining a Frankish frontier state beyond it. Admittedly, Constantinople’s aspirations regarding the principality of Antioch and its future do not seem to have had much of an effect on the Frankish rulers’ policies, but it is important to remember that other Christian states were seeking to impose their own geopolitical blueprint on both the principality and the wider region.

The First Decades: the County of Edessa, 1099–1115 By late 1099 the County of Edessa seems already to have reached a position of quasi-stability. The fact that its first count, Baldwin of Boulogne (future Baldwin I of Jerusalem), felt able to leave his charge and embark upon a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in late 1099–early 1100 demonstrates his confidence in his newly founded territory.131 This was not because Edessa lacked threats. Karbugha, ruler of Mosul, besieged Edessa in May 1098 en route to lift the First Crusade’s siege of Antioch.132 There had then been an attempted Armenian coup against Baldwin soon afterwards and the Artuqids of the Diyar Bakr were consistently hostile.133 Moreover, Baldwin had to delay his departure for Jerusalem so as to beat off yet another Turkish attack.134 129 AC, 391–4.   130  WT, 671. 131  FC, 322–43; WM, vol. 1, 662–6; AA, 494–8. 132  ME, 170; AA, 266; FC, 242–3; ASC1, 71. For discussion on the length of time Karbugha spent in Edessan territory see: Edgington, Baldwin I, 52. 133 WT, 349–50.   134  FC, 326.

44  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Baldwin’s willingness to depart for the south may have been grounded instead in the scale of the Frankish settlement in Edessa in its early years. William of Tyre reports that so many Crusaders travelled to the city that it began to worry the local people.135 In later years Edessa maintained its front-footed and confident stance, sending forces repeatedly to support its neighbours. In 1100 Edessa sent forces to lift Danishmendid’s siege of Melitene;136 in 1102 Baldwin of Bourcq went to the southern borders of the kingdom of Jerusalem in response to an appeal for help from Baldwin I;137 and in 1103 Edessa troops supported Bohemond in an attack on the town of Musilimiya.138 Also in 1103 Edessan ­raiders began to plunder both Aleppan territory139 and the Artuqid-ruled Diyar Bakr, attacking Turkmen tribes and their herds right up to the main Artuqid stronghold of Mardin.140 These raids rapidly became more ambitious and by November of this year, Edessa’s horsemen had penetrated as far south as Raqqa.141 Such long-range raiding expeditions were to become a distinctive element of Edessan’s military activity. Even though many of these incursions went unrecorded, as late as 1127, Ibn alAthir claims that Frankish forces were routinely hitting targets as far afield as the Diyar Bakr, Amid, Nisbis, Raqqa, and Harran. Given that Edessa was the only Frankish power to reach such areas it seems likely that the county maintained a high level of raiding activity, harassing Turkish r­ ulers across an astonishing wide zone for a prolonged period.142 Naturally, all the Crusader States engaged in raiding but they rarely risked pushing too deep into enemy territory. Edessa’s commanders by contrast were rather more daring and their contingents were among the few raiders of any culture of this period regularly prepared to circumvent their enemies’ strongholds, pushing hundreds of miles into hostile territory. The only raids from any other Frankish state during this early period that came close to matching Edessa’s ambitious expeditions were those launched by Joscelin of Courtenay (then lord of Tiberias) out of the kingdom of Jerusalem in 1118. In this year, Joscelin traversed Damascene territory even going as far as to harass the Homs road. Joscelin’s campaigns are very much the exceptions that prove the rule because only six years before this Joscelin had argued with Baldwin of Bourcq in Edessa and then been exiled from the county; so he seems to have brought an Edessan attitude to warfare to the kingdom of Jerusalem in the south.143 This Edessan ebullience continued into 1104. In this year Joscelin of Courtenay—then lord of Tell Bashir—acquired control over the major town of Marash on the county’s north-western frontier from its Byzantine governor.144 135 WT, 349.   136 AA, 526.   137 AA, 654.   138  KAD, 591. 139 KAD, 591–2.   140 ME, 192.   141  IAA(C), vol. 1, 76. 142  IAA(HA), 60; T. El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response to the Crusades: the Politics of Jihad, Routledge Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey (Abingdon, 2016), 40. 143  For the exile of Joscelin of Courtenay: ME, 225. For his expeditions in 1118, see: IAA(C), vol. 1, 196. 144  Beech, ‘The Crusader lordship of Marash’, 39.

Frankish Expansion  45 More importantly, the county attempted an ambitious expansion to the south, seeking to conquer the town of Harran with Antiochene support. The addition of Harran would have brought Edessa one stage closer to Aleppo. Indeed many of Aleppo’s subsequent conquerors/claimants including Ilghazi (in 1119),145 Balak (in 1123),146 Zangi (1128),147 and Saladin (1182)148 secured Harran as a first stage, prior to a takeover or assault on the city itself. Possession of Harran would also grant Edessa uncontested control over the fertile region on its southern flank and serve as an outer bastion and defence against Turkish rulers to the south. Edessa had apparently been preparing for this venture for some time, raiding Harran’s lands on an annual basis to weaken the town’s resistance prior to a major assault.149 In the event, however, the siege had to be raised when the Turkish ­rulers Sokman and Jokermish staged a diversionary attack on Edessa, drawing the Franks away from their target. They then defeated the Franks decisively at the battle of Harran and Baldwin of Edessa was taken captive.150 Unusually for this period, the battle itself seems to have been fought out between armies of roughly equal size and it is testimony to these Turkish commanders’ skill and co-operation that they were able to defeat a large combined Antiochene–Edessan army given that so many of their peers had been defeated by substantially smaller Frankish forces. Following the battle of Harran, Edessa itself was briefly attacked but it soon became clear that Antioch would suffer most from this Turkish victory.151 Both Ridwan of Aleppo and the Byzantines concentrated their efforts on Antioch, leaving Edessa virtually unscathed, despite the fact that its ruler had been captured at Harran; potentially an indication that Antioch was perceived to be the weaker of the two states at this point (although it may also reflect the fact that Antioch’s coastlands were more accessible to Byzantine naval forces unlike the landlocked county of Edessa). For the next four years, Edessa was ruled by Tancred of Antioch (via a deputy named Richard) while Count Baldwin languished in captivity. Not surprisingly, Edessan forces were harnessed to serve Antiochene interests and Tancred made little effort to secure Baldwin’s release, despite their former history of co-operation. Baldwin of Edessa was eventually released in 1108 when his captor Jawuli of Mosul was ousted from power.152 Baldwin returned home to find that Tancred was unwilling to relinquish his control over Edessa and so he and Jawuli ended up joining forces against their common foes, Tancred of Antioch and Ridwan of Aleppo—an extraordinary cross-cultural confrontation demonstrating how confused the battle lines could become (Table 1.6).153 145  ASC1, 88.   146  IAA(C), vol. 1, 245. 147 El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim response, 45. 148  BH, vol. 1, 313.    149  WT, 488–9. 150  FC, 468–77; IAA(C), vol. 1, 79–80; ME, 192–3. 151 ME, 197.   152  IAA(C), vol. 1, 137–8.    153  FC, 477–81; ASC1, 82.

46  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 1.6  Incursions launched by or against the county of Edessa (1099–1150)154

Edessa (offensive) Edessa (defensive)

1099 (late)–1109

1110–19

1120–9

1130–9

1140–9

1150

13 (2) 8

9 (3) 12

11 (1) 10

8 (4) 10

5 (1) 8155

NA 5

In the years that followed, Edessa continued to launch its raiding expeditions, but it also became deeply embattled suffering multiple attacks, particularly during the 1110s. From its establishment Edessa had been compelled to fend off repeated attacks including those by Karbugha in 1098, the Anatolian Turks (possibly the Danishmendids) in 1100, the Artuqids in 1101, Sokman and Jokermish in 1104, and Qilij Arslan I (Anatolian Seljuk sultan) in 1106. Nevertheless, from 1110 onwards the level of opposition encountered by the county dramatically increased when Sultan Mohammed began to demand that the rulers of Mosul (and in 1115 the ruler of Hamadhan) stage major campaigns against the Crusader States. Consequently, for six years, large armies were despatched annually against the Franks. Perhaps the most notable quality of all these campaigns is that each one targeted the county of Edessa. In 1110156 Mawdud of Mosul attacked Edessa and in 1111157 he raided Edessa and then besieged Tell Bashir. In 1112 he raided Edessan lands once again158 and in 1113 Mawdud raided Edessa prior to moving south to support Damascus against the kingdom of Jerusalem.159 In 1114, Edessa was attacked once again; this time by Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi (new ruler of Mosul after the assassination of Mawdud in 1113)160 and a further brief attack was staged the following year by Bursuq ruler of Hamadhan.161 The frequency of these attacks is striking and warrants some explanation. Admittedly Edessa was not the only Crusader State to be attacked by these armies, but no other state was assaulted with such consistency. It is tempting to explain away these assaults on Edessa by presenting them as glancing blows executed by these Turkish armies en route to their ‘real’ targets in Antioch or Jerusalem. Certainly, this kind of pattern fits Karbugha of Mosul’s swipe against Edessa in 1098 prior to his advance on Antioch. Nevertheless, the sense of determination manifested by Mawdud in 1110 against Edessa and 1111 against Tell Bashir when he maintained long and difficult sieges, strongly suggests that Edessa was his primary target. Even in 1113, when Mawdud expended most of his energies against 154  Please note, however, that the evidence for the county’s military history is very slight and it seems likely that a far greater proportion of the county’s campaigning remains unknown than for the other Frankish states (which would explain why the numbers are so much lower than for many of the other Crusader States). 155  But only three attacks before the fall of Edessa in Dec 1144. 156  IQ, 101–4; AA, 788; ME, 204.    157  IAA(C), vol. 1, 156; ASC1, 82. 158  ME, 209; IQ, 127.    159  ME, 212. 160  IAA(C), vol, 1, 166; ME, 215.    161  ME, 218–19; ASC1, 86.

Frankish Expansion  47 Jerusalem, he still attacked Edessa first even though on this occasion it did not lie  on his line-of-march. It seems more likely therefore that Mawdud (and by extension the sultan) were sufficiently concerned by the Edessan threat to prioritize the county’s defeat above that of its coastal neighbours. There are many possible explanations for this focus on Edessa. Most importantly, Edessa was situated in far greater proximity to the sultanate’s core territories in Iraq and it was the only Crusader State to have any chance of raiding the Seljuks’ heartlands. Its proximity to Mosul would also have made it a source of concern for the city’s ­rulers, who frequently commanded the sultan’s forces. The Franks were aware that Edessa was very much their front-line state; a point confirmed by later troubadours who occasionally alluded to the great and powerful enemies who lay ‘beyond Edessa’.162 Edessa was dangerous to the Turks in other ways. The Frankish counts demonstrated a proclivity for striking up accords with disenfranchised Turkish rulers, both during and after the First Crusade. Moreover, from an early stage the counts developed a strong rapport with the Banu Uqayl, the Arab dynasty ruling Qal‘at Ja‘bar. This relationship seems to date back to 1108 when Salim ibn Malik (Banu Uqayl) mediated the release of Baldwin of Bourcq. During these negotiations Salim and Joscelin of Coutenay (acting as the Edessan negotiator) became firm friends, swearing a life-long alliance.163 This accord seems to have persisted. In 1120–1, while Joscelin was raiding Turkmen tribes situated along the line of the Euphrates, he was accosted by the Uqaylids who told him that he had trespassed on their territory; Joscelin was apparently appalled and returned all the plunder he had taken.164 In the early twelfth century, the Banu Uqayl controlled very little territory but, as the region’s former rulers prior to the Turkish conquest, their informal authority over a large proportion of the Arab Muslim population in the Jazira and Mosul region substantially extended their influence. It would doubtlessly have been remembered among the Turks that the Banu Uqayl had been in power in Mosul are recently as 1093 and in 1083 they had been strong enough to attempt the reconquest of Damascus from the Turks.165 Then in 1096, with the First Crusade advancing from the north, Karbugha had besieged and seized Nisbis from the Uqaylids.166 There was the latent potential here for a dangerous Frankish/Arab alliance (and as will be shown below, Antioch attempted just such an alliance with another prominent Arab dynasty in 1124). Edessa may have been deemed especially dangerous because its forces so frequently assailed the Turkmen grazing grounds in regions such as the northern Jazira and the Diyar Bakr. As shown in Table  1.7, the county’s forces were not 162 L. Paterson, Singing the Crusades: French, Occitan Lyric Responses to the Crusading Movements, 1137–1336 (Cambridge, 2018), 94, 116; C. MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East: Rough Tolerance (Philadelphia, 2008), 51. 163  ASC1, 81; UIM, 255–6.    164 UIM, 103.   165  IAA(AST), 208–9; 266–7. 166  IAA(HA), 30.

48  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 1.7  Armies raised by the county of Edessa including allied forces (1099–1150) The county of Edessa’s armies and raiding forces: 1099–1187 Baldwin of Boulogne’s journey south to the kingdom of Jerusalem to become king (1100)  

500 cavalry and infantry (Ibn al-Athir and Ibn al-Qalanisi) 200 knights and 700 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres) 400 cavalry and 1000 infantry initially—later 160 cavalry and 500 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 200 knights and 800 infantry (William of Tyre) 200 knights and 300 infantry (Caffaro)167 300 troops (The continuator of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle) Baldwin of Bourcq’s relief 600 cavalry and 700 infantry of Saruj (1100) (Matthew of Edessa) Relief of Melitene (1100) 140 knights (Albert of Aachen) Battle of Harran (1104) 3000 cavalry and 7000 infantry— Antioch only (Albert of Aachen) 10,000 troops—the combined army (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 12,000 Frankish dead—presumably both Edessa and Antiochene forces (Ibn al-Athir) Campaign against Mawdud 400 cavalry and 10,000 infantry—later of Mosul (1110) 300 cavalry (Albert of Aachen) Tell Bashir (1111) 150 knights and 100 infantry—later 200 cavalry and 100 infantry (Albert of Aachen) Saruj (1112) 100 cavalry and 100 infantry (Matthew of Edessa) Al-Bira (1117–18) 1000 troops (Matthew of Edessa) Battle of Manbij (1124) 10,000 troops (Kamal al-Din) 900 Christian knights (Orderic Vitalis) Defending against an 600 cavalry (Michael the Syrian) Artuqid raid (1133) Defending against an 300 cavalry and 4000 infantry (Bar Artuqid attack (1138) Hebraeus and Michael the Syrian) Journey from Tell Bashir 200 cavalry (Bar Hebraeus) to Antioch (1150) William of Tyre’s estimate 500 knights (William of Tyre) about the number of knights the county of Edessa could support

167  Caffaro, ‘Annales Ianuenses’, 5.

IAA(C), vol. 1, 47; IQ, 51 FC, 354 AA, 530–2 WT, 458

FE, 162 ME, 178 AA, 526 AA, 690 IQ, 60 IAA(C), vol. 1, 80 AA, 792, 798 AA, 812, 814 ME, 210 ME, 220 KAD, 641 OV, 6, 127 MS, 649 BH, vol. 1, 265; MS, 656 BH, vol. 1, 276 WT, 785

Frankish Expansion  49 large (typically numbering in the high hundreds or low thousands), but these were important pastoral areas and Turkmen communities represented a mainstay for the Turkish armies of Aleppo, Damascus, Mardin, and Mosul. If Edessa could reduce or drive away these groups then it would substantially impact this crucial reservoir of allied Turkish groups, thereby threatening the Turkish elites ruling the major cities. This threat would only have been exacerbated by the fact that further east the Georgians were also in the process of trying to push the Turkmen tribes off their grazing land.168 For these reasons, it is not surprising that all the sultan-led campaigns of this era committed to attacking the county, even if some then moved on to other targets. Panning out the county’s broader history, the city of Edessa alone endured no less than sixteen attacks (sieges, blockades, or raids up to the wall) between 1098 and 1146; probably making it the most attacked target anywhere in the early history of the Crusader States.169 This concentration of effort, however, whilst painful for Edessa’s rulers, served to shield the other Frankish states and Barber is undoubtedly correct to label Edessa as the Crusader States’ ‘shock absorber’.170 Overall, viewed in hindsight, it is easy to write off Edessa as a short-lived endeavour, doomed to failure; a weaker and distant tributary state to the principality of Antioch. Such a perception however fails to recognize that, from a Turkish perspective, it was almost certainly viewed as the most dangerous of all the Crusader States in the early twelfth century. The Edessan threat was only partially mitigated by the smallness of Edessa’s army and yet despite this the county demonstrated an ability to strike at targets far beyond their own borders whilst they—like their Antiochene neighbours—seem to have had aspirations to push aggressively towards Aleppo.

168  ‘History of David, king of kings’, 324–5.    169  See Chapter 6. 170 Barber, The Crusader States, 96.

2

Friends and Foes (1099–1129) The Fatimids 1099–1123 In 1099, amidst the tumultuous events of the First Crusade, the Fatimids performed a dramatic political U-turn in their dealings with the Franks. Initially their diplomatic stance was to seek Frankish aid against the Turks, but by the summer of 1099 the two factions were locked in conflict. One catalyst for this shift was the failure of the final round of Crusader–Fatimid talks held at Arqa in the spring of 1099, during which they discussed a military alliance against the Turks—the stumbling block in these talks being possession of Jerusalem itself.1 The collapse of these negotiations was then compounded by the Franks’ brutal conquest of Fatimid-held Jerusalem and their defeat of the Fatimid army at Ascalon immediately afterwards. From this point onwards, the two became normative enemies. Regarding the Turks, in late 1099, the Fatimids were still announcing their intention to crush the Seljuks and conquer Damascus, but the unexpectedly successful resistance offered by the Franks, both at Ascalon and against their later invasions, seems to have driven them to reverse this stance and to seek Turkish support.2 From a military historian’s perspective the conflict between Fatimid Egypt and the kingdom of Jerusalem is dominated by a single over-arching problem. This is the challenge of explaining why the Fatimid military was so conspicuously ineffective in its efforts to destroy the fledging Frankish kingdom in Jerusalem. Supported by the substantial financial resources of the Nile Delta and a large and well-equipped army, the Egyptians could reasonably have expected to uproot the impoverished Franks and their small army almost immediately. And yet, time and again, the Fatimids attacked only to be beaten back, generally by numerically inferior Frankish forces. During this period the Fatimids staged major invasions—including land and naval forces—against Jerusalem in 1099, 1101, 1102, 1103, 1105, 1118, and 1123 coupled with smaller incursions out of Ascalon or naval raids in 1104, 1106, 1107, 1108, 1110, 1111, 1113, and 1115. They also sent forces to assist the beleaguered cities strung out along the Levantine coast when they came under Frankish attack. Given the frequency of their incursions, the Fatimids were clearly determined to dislodge the Franks and yet none of these campaigns managed to secure any 1 RA, 110.   2  RA, 155.

The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

Friends and Foes  51 permanent gains or lasting victories. The Fatimids did win a few minor ­skirmishes, such as a victory over the castellan of Jaffa (Roger of Rozoy) in 11063 and another against Joscelin of Courtenay’s raiders in 1119.4 They also briefly conquered some strongpoints including Ramla in 11025 and Castellum Arnaldi (Yalu) in 1106.6 Even so, they only secured one battlefield success at the Second Battle of Ramla in 1102; a victory that was reversed almost immediately afterwards by Baldwin I’s victory at Jaffa.7 Every other major invasion was beaten back either with a major battlefield defeat (1099, 1101, 1105, 1123) or with an inconclusive stalemate (1103 and 1118). Explaining this catalogue of persistent failure is a demanding challenge; one that becomes even more complex on closer inspection. The Fatimid army had not always performed so poorly. Back in 982 a Fatimid expeditionary force operating in Southern Italy managed to defeat a major imperial army led by Emperor Otto II.8 More recently, in 1077, the Fatimids managed to drive a Seljuk attack out of the Nile Delta and even to retake much of the coastal region. Their forces successfully conquered Tyre in 1089 and then conquered the city again, following a rebellion, in 1097.9 By late 1097 they were offering military assistance to Ridwan, Seljuk ruler of Aleppo, and in 1098 they reconquered Jerusalem.10 Admittedly, the Fatimids’ record against the advancing Seljuks includes several major failures. These include their short-lived attempt to retake Baghdad from the Turks in 1058; a venture which, despite a rare battlefield victory against the Turks, collapsed quickly. They also repeatedly tried to conquer Damascus in the 1070s and 1080s, but all their attempts failed. Having said this, the Fatimids’ record against the Turks may have been mixed, but given the speed with which the Turks had beaten back or overthrown almost every other civilization in their path (Byzantines, Buyids, Ghaznavids, the Arab dynasties of northern Syria, and the Kurds) the Fatimids’ ability to survive—and even to riposte—against this powerful adversary represents a level of success achieved by scarcely any of their neighbours. So why then did they lose repeatedly to the Franks? To begin to answer this question it is necessary to explore the Fatimid army and its political leadership.11 During the course of the eleventh cntury the Fatimid

3 AA, 728.   4  IAA(C), vol. 1, 205.    5 AA, 644.   6  AA, 730–2. 7 The 1102 Second Battle of Ramla doesn’t quite qualify as a ‘battle’ given the definition employed in this book due to the smallness of the Frankish army, but it has been included out of convention. 8  See: Thietmar of Merseburg, ‘Thietmari Merseburgensis Episcopi Chronicon’, MGH SRGNS, ed. R. Holtzmann, vol. 9 (Berlin, 1935), 122–3. For discussion see: M. Brett, The Rise of the Fatimids: the World of the Mediterranean & the Middle East in the Tenth Century ce, The Medieval Mediterranean XXX (Leiden, 2001), 362. 9 Gil, A History of Palestine, 419.   10  IAA (AST), 294. 11 For discussion see: K.  Thomson, Politics and Power in Late Fatimid Egypt: the Reign of Caliph  ­al-Mustansir (London, 2016); M.  Brett, The Fatimid Empire, The Edinburgh History of the

52  The Crusader States and their Neighbours army changed considerably. By the 1020s–30s it had long been a force comprised of contingents drawn from different ethnic groups. These included: Armenians, Bedouin, Turks, Berbers, and Sudanese troops. The army however changed dramatically in composition during the middle of the century due to the convulsions that reshaped the empire. By the 1040s the rivalries between the various army contingents broke into open conflict. During the 1060s the major groups began to rebel and clash with one another, preying upon the lands they were intended to protect. These confrontations were themselves provoked and exacerbated by longstanding agricultural problems in the delta brought about by the frequent failure of the Nile to rise and irrigate its farmlands. This ecological disaster then made it difficult to pay the army, many of whose contingents picked this moment to demand a pay increase. The two main protagonists leading the infighting within the Fatimid army were the Sudanese and the Turks and by the late 1060s the Turks had secured the upper hand, having decisively defeated their opponents. In the years that followed, the Fatimids’ Turkish troops secured control over the Nile Delta—still in the throes of an agricultural crisis. Their ascension opened the door to Seljuk intervention in the Nile Delta and in 1070 the Fatimid Turks’ leader Ibn Hamdan invited Seljuk Sultan Alp Arslan to become Egypt’s overlord and he ordered the khutbah to be made in much of Egypt for the Abbasid—rather than the Fatimid- caliph. A Seljuk takeover at this stage was a real possibility. The tide turned in 1073–4 with the murder of Ibn Hamdan (1073) and then the despatch of an appeal for help from the Fatimid caliph al-Mustansir to Badr alJumali, governor of Acre (1074). Badr duly arrived and, having first murdered the Turks’ main leaders, he set about brutally restoring control, taking power across the empire as the amir al-juyush (army commander).12 He was then able to resist a major Turkish invasion staged out of Syria in 1077 led by the Turkmen leader Atsiz. As Thomson has pointed out, the rapid decline of Byzantine Anatolia at this time may then have played its part in drawing the Turks’ attention northwards, deflecting the Turks away from staging another major expedition across the Sinai in later years.13 During this troubled period, Badr set himself the task of wholly dismembering the existing Turkish-Fatimid army; creating a new force in its place based on his own largely Armenian military following. He then set out to

Islamic Empires (Edinburgh, 2017); Y. Lev, ‘Regime, army and society in medieval Egypt, 9th–12th centuries’, War and Society in the Eastern Mediterranean, 7th–15th Centuries, ed. Y. Lev (Leiden, 1997), 115–52. 12  For discussion on this significance of this title see: P. E. Walker, ‘Was the Fatimid Amīr al-Juyūsh in fact a Wazīr?’, The Fatimid Caliphate: Diversity of Traditions, ed. S. Daftary and S. Jiwa (London, 2018), 80–93. 13 K. Thomson, Politics and Power in Late Fatimid Egypt: the Reign of Caliph al-Mustansir (London, 2016), 65, 132.

Friends and Foes  53 re-assert the Fatimids’ claim to Syria conquering many towns and cities but ­failing repeatedly to restore control in Damascus.14 By the time of the First Crusade, the Fatimid army—now led by Badr’s son ­al-Afdal—and the financial base on which it was founded had been partially reconstructed.15 Having been ruthlessly wiped out by the Turks, several Sudanese contingents re-emerged and Bedouin forces were recruited. Badr al-Jumali’s original force had been Armenian and these too remained present, forming their own contingent. Describing the battle of Ascalon in 1099 Albert of Aachen ­mentions the presence of troops from Ethiopia (a reference to the Sudanese regiments) and also more curiously the ‘race of Publicans’ (Gens Publicanorum).16 The term Publicani indicates Paulicians who were Christian heretics whose settlements could be found across the Near East but with many in Anatolia. Whether some found their way to Egypt is unclear, but this may be a broader reference to heretical Armenian Christians in Fatimid service.17 Fulcher of Chartres adds that there were also Turks in their ranks; a possible misunderstanding, although it is not impossible that the Fatimids had resumed recruiting Turkish troops.18 Such then was the first Fatimid army encountered by the Franks shortly after their ­conquest of Jerusalem in July 1099. The Frankish armies ranged against the Fatimids were generally substantially smaller, but it is not clear to what degree. Table 2.1 contains the statistical data provided by the main chroniclers for these battles.19 In many respects, presenting all the data in a single place is of little assistance, given that the numerical estimates for the various armies vary so widely. Nevertheless, some of these sources are more reliable than others. Ibn al-Qalanisi, Albert of Aachen, and Fulcher of Chartres are the most contemporary. Albert of Aachen never visited the Holy Land, but the consistently high quality of contextual information in his chronicle strongly implies his reliance on a very well informed source. Some of the Arabic histories were written quite late (Ibn al-Athir and Ibn  Muyassar in the thirteenth century) but it has been noted that their versions may be based on official Fatimid records.20 Other sources presented here 14  For broader discussion on the Fatimid Empire during this period see: Thomson, Politics and Power, passim; S. B. Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians, Islamic History and Civilization, Studies and Texts XVIII (Leiden, 1997), 81–153. 15  Thomson is careful to stress that the army had gone through such enormous changes that the new army founded by Badr al-Jumali was a very different force: Thomson, Politics and Power, 72. See also: Brett, Fatimid Empire, 209–15. 16  Latin and translation: AA, 456–7.    17 Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians, passim. 18  FC, 311. The rebuilding of a Turkish faction is also stated by al-Qalqashandi but it is not clear from this source when this took place: al-Qalqashandī, Selections from Ṣubḥ al-A’shā by al-Qalqashandī, clerk of the Mamluk court, ed. and trans. H.  el-Toudy and T.  Abdelhamid, Routledge Medieval Translations (Abingdon, 2017), 146. See also: Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 304. 19  This table excludes numbers supplied by chroniclers and contemporaries which are obviously too high. 20  Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 21.

54  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 2.1  Armies raised by the Fatimids and the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1123) Battle

Numbers supplied

Ascalon (1099)

Franks 20,000 Christians (Albert of Aachen)21 1200 cavalry and 9000 infantry (William of Tyre and Raymond of Aguilers) 5000 horsemen and 15,000 infantry (Frutolf of Michelsberg and Daimbert of Pisa)22 Fatimids 10,000 Fatimid casualties (Ibn al-Qalanisi) Franks 250 cavalry and less than 700 infantry (William of Malmesbury) 260 knights and 900 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 300 knights and 1000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 1000 knights and footsoldiers (Guibert of Nogent) 1000 cavalry and 10,000 infantry (al-Maqrizi, Ibn Muyassar and Ibn al-Qalanisi)23 1000 knights and 7000 infantry (The 1106 continuation of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle) Fatimids 9000 milites and 20,000 infantry (Guibert of Nogent) 11,000 cavalry and 21,000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres, William of Tyre and William of Malmesbury)24 Franks 200 knights (Fulcher of Chartres, William of Tyre) 700 cavalry and infantry (Ibn al-Qalanisi)

Ramla (1101)

Ramla (1102)

Ramla (1105)

700 knights (Albert of Aachen) Fatimids 20,000 cavalry and 10,000 infantry and later 20,000 in total (Fulcher of Chartres) 20,000 in total (William of Tyre) Franks 6000 troops in total, including 160 cavalry (Albert of Aachen) 500 knights as well as other cavalry supported by 2000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre)

Ref AA, 468 WT, 434; RA, 156

IQ, 48 WM, vol. 1, 678 FC, 409; WT, 473 AA, 576 GN, 345 FE, 174 GN, 345 FC, 409; WT, 472; WM, vol. 1, 678 FC, 440; WT, 476 IQ, 55; IAA(C), vol. 1, 61 AA, 640 FC, 425, 440 WT, 476 AA, 708 FC, 496; WT, 498

21  Although note that slightly earlier Albert supplies figures, seemingly for Godfrey’s contingent, of 2000 cavalry and 3000 infantry (AA, 462). 22  FE, 116; Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100, ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Innsbruck, 1901). 23 M.  Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, ed. U. Vermeulen and D. de Smet (Leuven, 1995), 36; IQ, 53; IM, 464. 24  Fulcher adds the detail later that the Fatimids suffered 5000 casualties (FC, 414).

Friends and Foes  55

Ibelin (1123)

1300 cavalry and 8000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir and al-Maqrizi)25 4000 troops in total (The 1106 continuation of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle)26 Fatimids 5000 Egyptians with 1300 Damascene allies (Ibn al-Athir and al-Maqrizi)27 10,000 Egyptians supported by Damascene allies (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 15,000 troops in total including 1000 Turks from Damascus (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 7000 casualties among the Fatimid forces (Albert of Aachen, 710) Franks 7000 troops in total (William of Tyre) 8000 troops in total (Fulcher of Chartres) Fatimids 16,000 troops in total with 7000 casualties (William of Tyre) 16,000 troops in total with 6000 casualties (Fulcher of Chartres)

IQ, 71 FC, 490, 496; WT, 498 AA, 710 WT, 572–3 FC, 667 WT, 573 FC, 667

are dependent on others. It is well known for example that both William of Malmesbury and William of Tyre drew upon Fulcher.28 Extrapolating from the above, it seems reasonable to conclude that the Fatimids generally fielded forces of between 10–12,000. This is based on a crude line-of-best-fit between the more contemporary sources. This data, drawn from  the campaigns which resulted in a major battle, is supported further by the estimates given for the size of the Fatimid army in 1118 (a campaign where the Egyptians fielded a major force but no actual battle took place). On this occasion their army is said to have been either 7000 cavalry supported by a Damascene force (Ibn al-Athir), or 15,000 cavalry and 20,000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres); the former estimate sounds more plausible given that presumably infantry forces should be added to this number.29 Fulcher’s estimate is almost certainly too high.

25  IAA(C), vol. 1, 93; Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 37.    26  FE, 200. 27  IAA(C), vol. 1, 93; Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 37. 28  For discussion on the inter-relationships between the Arabic sources see: Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 20. 29  IAA(C), vol. 1, 196. Admittedly Ibn al-Athir seems to imply in 1118 that 7000 horsemen constituted the total Fatimid force, but this is difficult to believe given that the major Fatimid armies always included a large infantry contingent. FC, 618–19.

56  The Crusader States and their Neighbours This estimate of 10–12,000 is broadly comparable to other historians. Hamblin argues for a force of roughly 5–10,000 troops; Tibble goes a bit higher suggesting a core of between 5–12,000 troops with roughly the same number again of ‘­irregulars and auxiliaries’.30 France supports an estimated force at Ascalon of 20,000 (1099), although he feels that this might be rather high.31 The Frankish numbers, as might be expected, began fairly high at the battle of Ascalon (when the main contingents of the First Crusade were still present), but then dipped considerably for the 1101 and 1102 campaigns when the remaining settlers had far less support. Relying mostly on Ibn al-Qalanisi, Fulcher, and Albert, the numbers then describe a steady growth over subsequent campaigns which again tallies with the rising power of the kingdom of Jerusalem. Comparing the two forces, the Franks were undoubtedly inferior in many respects and yet they still tended to win. To explore this phenomenon, the key battles will be briefly summarized to provide the groundwork for an overall explanation. The sources for these encounters contain many contradictions and discrepancies and the versions given below represent the most likely scenarios.32 1099—The battle of Ascalon is perhaps the easiest of these Fatimid defeats to explain. The crusading army at this point remained fairly large and was exceptionally battle-hardened given its experiences advancing across Anatolia and Syria. The Franks also made use of scattered groups of cattle to amplify their main cavalry charge, presumably driving them ahead of their advanced squadrons. The Christian cavalry charge struck the Fatimid camp at daybreak outside the city walls.33 Describing the attack, later authors Ibn al-Athir and al-Maqrizi add the crucial detail that the Fatimid army was not yet fully prepared for battle.34 Notably many of the Franks’ most remarkable victories were achieved by charging suddenly into enemy camps before their armies could form. Later examples include: the battle of Saruj (1101), Raymond of Toulouse’s defence of Tortosa (1102), Tancred’s victory outside Edessa (1104), the First Battle of Tell Danith (1115), and the battle of al-Buqayˊa (1163). Seemingly the Franks were aware that the only way they could defeat overwhelming enemy forces was to catch them wholly off guard. 1101—The First Battle of Ramla by contrast is one of the hardest Frankish victories to explain. On this occasion the Frankish army was small, apparently only 260 knights and 900 infantry against a major Fatimid force. These low figures for the Frankish army, supplied by Fulcher, are probably accurate given that the First 30  Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 89 (see Brett’s comments of Hamblin: ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 19). Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 215 (quotation), 229 (although Tibble suggests 20,000 at Ascalon in 1099). See also: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 62. 31 France, Victory in the East, 360. 32  For an excellent account of the problems with the sources for the battles of Ramla see: Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 17–30. For more granular reconstructions of these encounters see: Edgington, Baldwin I, 129–50; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 211–51. 33  GF, 95; RA, 157.    34  IAA(C), vol. 1, 22; Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 36.

Friends and Foes  57 Crusaders had mostly gone home and Fulcher was present at the time. Baldwin I’s victory on this occasion seems to have been brought about by dividing his force into six lines (Albert of Aachen says five) and then using these to strike the Fatimid army percussively until it broke; again a victory achieved by a series of cavalry assaults.35 On this occasion, however, several sources add the detail that the Fatimid army commander was deliberately targeted and killed, perhaps suggesting that the Franks were hoping that if they could kill their opponents’ general then this might engender a general rout.36 Some Muslim sources report this as a Fatimid victory, but this seems unlikely.37 Fulcher of Chartres, who was present at the encounter, describes it as a Fatamid defeat and certainly, if the Fatimids had been successful, then it is hard to see why they would not have followed up on their achievement by attacking either Jerusalem or Jaffa given that the Franks had no other line of defence.38 1102—The Second Battle of Ramla was the only occasion when the Franks ­suffered a major defeat. Seemingly, Baldwin wanted to repeat his earlier victory, driving the Fatimids away with his cavalry, but on this occasion he was overconfident and attacked with too small a force, which was swiftly engulfed by the far larger Fatimid army. Baldwin himself was fortunate to escape with his life. William of Malmesbury comments that Baldwin was unaware of the true size of the enemy force.39 Fulcher however—Baldwin’s chaplain—is less forgiving and says the king was simply careless.40 Exactly how/why Baldwin expected to win with so few troops is difficult to explain. True, he had scored major victories previously with small numbers but his conduct generally proves him to be a very wily commander. Describing this battle, Fulcher adds the interesting detail that the Frankish charge—whilst a failure—fought with the Fatimids within their encampment and managed briefly to drive them away from their own lines. This detail may imply that Baldwin had hoped to catch the Fatimid army unawares and storm through their camp before they had a chance to form into battle array—as they had in 1099.41 1102—The Battle of Jaffa was Baldwin’s chance to redeem himself and, supported by newly arrived pilgrim forces,42 he assembled a small force of cavalry and infantry in Jaffa. Then, in a much slower-moving assault compared to previous attacks, he marched out of the gates in a what seems to have been a fighting march formation (advancing with the infantry—armed with bows and crossbows— providing cover for the cavalry). His target—once again—was the enemy camp. 35  FC, 412; AA, 576. 36  IQ, 54 (although strangely Ibn al-Qalanisi reports this battle as a Fatimid victory; a claim that is not supported by the other sources). See also: AA, 580. 37  See: IQ, 54; al-Maqrizi in: Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 36. For further discussion on this point see: Brett, The Fatimid Empire, 235. Tibble also finds this interpretation unconvincing: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 241. 38 FC, 414.   39  WM, vol. 1, 684.    40 FC, 438.   41  FC, 440. 42  ME, 191; AA, 650.

58  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The Fatimids then swiftly surrounded Baldwin’s force but were ultimately repulsed and forced to flee.43 1105—The Third Battle of Ramla presented a rather different challenge to the Franks. The Fatimids had been requesting aid from Tughtakin in Damascus since 1103,44 and in this year Tughtakin despatched 1300 cavalry to supplement the Egyptian forces. Quite possibly the Damascenes were concerned by the fact that the Franks were harbouring a Turkish claimant to their city who might oust Tughtakin (Damascus’ ruler) from control.45 Baldwin’s plan was essentially the same as many of his previous campaigns. He hoped to hurl a frontal cavalry assault against the Fatimids when they were unprepared to receive it. Thus he waited for the Fatimids to divide their forces before sending his cavalry against the smaller portion located in their main camp.46 Baldwin initiated this attack, consisting of five squadrons launched at phased intervals, which managed to rout this part of the Fatimid army.47 Rather like in 1101 it seems that the Franks deliberately targeted their opponents’ leaders, managing to kill the governor of Ascalon, but not the army commander, Sharaf al-Ma‘ali. This may have contributed to their victory, but on this occasion at least the Franks’ motive for singling out their opponents’ generals seems rather to have been the thought of enriching themselves with these commanders’ ransom money if they could be taken alive.48 Ibn al-Athir is keen to present the battle as a draw, but his testimony is not broadly corroborated. His verdict may be based on an encounter that took place in the battle’s final stages when a band of Fatimid survivors regrouped and renewed their assault on the Franks, scoring a minor victory.49 This did not however change the outcome, which was the full withdrawal of the Fatimid forces. The last major battle fought in 1123 near Ibelin is also the most opaque. The Fatimids had advanced with naval and land forces to besiege Jaffa. The Franks then gathered their forces and launched a sudden assault. William of Tyre reports the battle as a confrontation conducted by two well-ordered armies, both prepared for battle.50 Fulcher’s more contemporary account contains no such claim suggesting that Baldwin II gathered his forces at daybreak and instigated a sudden assault which immediately routed his enemy without any substantial resistance.51 Michael the Syrian’s brief account support’s Fulcher’s version, reporting that the Franks ‘rushed’ upon the Fatimids, driving them away.52 The most probable 43  AA, 650; FC, 452; WM, vol. 1, 686. 44  For discussion see: M. Brett, ‘The Fatimids and the counter-Crusade, 1099–1171’, Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras V, ed. U. Vermeulen and K. D’Hulster (Leuven, 2007), 16. 45  IAA(C), vol. 1, 93. 46  Edgington offers a persuasive argument demonstrating that the Fatimids did divide their army at this point, using Bartolf of Nangis’ chronicle as evidence; thereby challenging Fulcher’s version which suggests that the Egyptians managed to regroup before the Frankish attack. See: AA, 708; FC, 497; Bartolf of Nangis, ‘Gesta Francorum Iherusalem Expugnantium’, RHC OC., vol. 3 (Paris, 1871), 540; Edgington, Baldwin I, 142. 47 AA, 708.   48  FC, 499; AA, 710.    49 IM, 466.   50  WT, 572–3. 51 FC, 665.   52  Translation: MS, 635.

Friends and Foes  59 interpretation of these sources is that the Franks did indeed catch their foe ­off-guard, storming through the camp before the Fatimids could form in battle array, rather as they seem to have done before. This is only hinted at by Fulcher of Chartres, but it fits the pattern of other Frankish attacks launched elsewhere. Reviewing the above encounters, the Frankish commanders clearly understood that their only chance to defeat a numerically superior enemy was to maximize the striking power of their initial cavalry assault. They had to win at the first onset. They lacked the numbers to risk the attrition of a drawn out encounter and on the one occasion (1102) when they did become bogged down in the melee, they lost. Consequently, they relied heavily on surprise attacks, seeking to catch their opponent off-guard at times when their foes’ armies were divided, encamped, or not prepared for battle. Other enhancements such as the use of cattle and perhaps even a determination to locate and kill opposing commanders may also have assisted them in tackling such overwhelming odds. The fact that these battles were conducted on the flattish land—cavalry territory—surrounding Jaffa and Ascalon would also have helped and, reporting the First Battle of Ramla (1101), Albert of Aachen comments that Baldwin I deliberately waited for his enemy to cross the flat ground between Ramla and Ascalon before initiating his assault.53 The importance of topography cannot be under-estimated and the previous year (1100) Baldwin defeated the Damascenes at Dog River by deliberately withdrawing to an area of flat ground before unleashing his cavalry.54 Aside from the technicalities of the actual fighting there may also be a broader perceptional factor to consider in understanding these battles and their outcomes. It is difficult to prove for certain but after the second or third defeat it must have begun to dawn upon the Fatimid forces that their armies had a tendency to lose when they were sent to the Frankish frontier. The extent to which such a view may have been present among the Fatimids’ contingents is impossible to know, but it warrants consideration. Certainly, Fatimid armies of this era were rarely engaged in fighting any other enemy so they had no other victories on different frontiers with which to re-balance the damage inflicted by the Franks on their forces’ morale. Conversely, it is worth considering whether and how the Franks’ repeated victories buoyed their morale, giving them the confidence to take on such large armies. With regard to the Franks’ perceptions there is a strange duality in their attitudes towards their Fatimid opponents. On one hand, Frankish authors derided the Egyptians—overall—as lazy, weak, and effeminate; this comes across clearly in sources from this period and beyond. Notably, Ibn al-Furat records an account of the deposed Fatimid vizier Shawar offering a similarly low opinion of Egyptian forces albeit in the 1160s.55 On the other hand, the Franks were not actually 53 AA, 566.   54  FC, 362. 55 F. Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World: the Value of Chronicles as Archives, The Early and Medieval Islamic World (London, 2019), 201.

60  The Crusader States and their Neighbours fighting ‘Egyptians’ per se, but rather an army composed of different ethnic groups including Armenians, Sudanese, Bedouin, and Turks. Notably, the Frankish sources are almost entirely positive about the fighting qualities of each of these peoples: the Armenians being viewed broadly positively, especially as archers;56 the Sudanese perceived as fearsome infantry (a view fully shared by other ­commentators);57 the Bedouin depicted as competent fighters and raiders, but untrustworthy,58 and the Turks ubiquitously praised for their martial qualities.59 It might also be observed that, pitched battles aside, the Frankish sources describe the Fatimids as staunch opponents in other contexts, such as during the defence of Jerusalem (1099) or their vigorous attacks on Jaffa (1123).60 Attempting to reconcile the fact that the Franks respected the Fatimids’ troops against their broader contempt for Egyptian armies in general, it seems likely that they considered each contingent to be effective in its own right, but had little opinion of an opposing empire which led its forces to defeat time and again. If these factors allowed the Franks to maximize their advantages then it is ­necessary also to consider how the Fatimids may have contributed to their own defeat. On this question, several possible explanations can quickly be abandoned. It is tempting for example to conclude that the Fatimids’ forces must have consisted of ineffective and poorly equipped fighters based on the frequency with which they suffered defeated. Such a verdict seems to be simply wrong—the Franks did not regard them as such and the fact that in 1118 the Franks held back from attacking an invading Fatimid army and simply shadowed it implies that they held no cavalier disregard for their opponents’ prowess.61 Hamblin has also demonstrated that Fatimid soldiers were well armoured and equipped—the Franks thus possessed no advantage in their armament.62 It is also possible to dismiss the view that the Fatimids wanted to preserve the Crusader States’ existence so that they could form a buffer against the Turks.63 If they wanted to 56  See for example: AA, 264, 356; ME, 223; B.  Kedar, ‘The Tractatus de locis et statu sancte terre ­ierosolimitane’, The Crusades and their Sources, ed. J. France and W. G. Zajac (Aldershot, 1998), 124. 57 AA, 464; IP, 83; The Taktika of Leo VI: Text, Translation and Commentary, trans. George. T. Dennis, Dumbarton Oaks Texts XII (Washginton DC, 2010), 477. 58  For Frankish descriptions of the Bedouin see: Kedar, ‘The Tractatus de locis’, 131; Matthew Paris, ‘Itinéraire de Londres a Jérusalem attribué à Matthieu Paris’, Itinéraires a Jérusalem et de la Terre Sainte, ed. H.  Michelant and G.  Gaynaud (Geneva, 1882), 129–30; Burchard of Mount Sion, ‘Descriptio Terrae Sanctae’, Peregrinatores Medii Aevi Quatuor, ed. J. Laurent (Leipzig, 1864), 89–90; John of Joinville, ‘The Life of Saint Louis’, Joinville and Villehardouin: Chronicle of the Crusades, trans. C. Smith (London, 2008), 208–9; B. Kedar, ‘A Western Survey of Saladin’s Forces at the Siege of Acre’, Montjoie: Studies in Crusade History in Honour of Hans Eberhard Mayer, ed. B. Kedar, J. Riley-Smith, and R. Hiestand (Aldershot, 1997), 121. 59  See: Morton, Encountering Islam, 113–20.   60  FC, 661–3. 61  FC, 619. Brett discusses the efficacy of Fatimids’ warriors/army in his survey of explanations for the repeated Fatimid defeats: Brett, Fatimid Empire, 234; Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 18. For issues of motivation see: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 217. 62  Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 138–54, 297–8. 63  Köhler suggests that the Fatimids wanted the Franks to be a buffer against the Turks during the early phases of the First Crusade, which fits the evidence well, but he subsequently seems to extend

Friends and Foes  61 maintain the Franks then it makes no sense that they should have attacked the kingdom so relentlessly.64 By contrast several historians have demonstrated that the Fatimids attempted to adapt their warcraft to better attack their Frankish foes, reforming their fiscal apparatus for the support of the army, and establishing elite cavalry companies.65 Likewise, Bartolf of Nangis is almost certainly correct that the Fatimids’ aim was to ‘destroy and lay waste’ to all the Franks.66 Other historians such as Lev and Hamblin take a different approach, suggesting that the Fatimid army lacked internal cohesion and observing that its various contingents, drawn from so many different ethnic groups, had little reason to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. This is an interesting notion and certainly fits with the history of infighting within the Fatimid army dating back to the 1060s. Having said this, the army post-1074 was—as shown above—a very different institution and, with the destruction of the large and politically active Turkish contingent, the main line of internal division was removed. Lev’s evidence for this claim is his observation that in both 1099 and 1123 there are reports of Fatimid cavalry forces fleeing from their armies, leaving the infantry to be slaughtered.67 Given that cavalry and infantry forces were supplied by different ethnic groups, this could be taken as proof for internal disarrangement. To this might be added both Ibn al-Athir’s report of disputes between Bedouin and ‘Egyptian’ forces during an attack in 1105 and the fact that the Sudanese infantry seem routinely to have been discriminated against by their compatriots.68 On balance however this factor must remain an imponderable. Both the 1099 and 1123 battles were characterized by sudden Frankish attacks and the Fatimid army does not seem to have got the chance to form its ranks properly on either occasion. The cavalry’s abandonment of the infantry may have been no more than simply a manifestation of panic—with every mounted soldier seizing the opportunity to gallop away from the chaos—rather than an example of interethnic hostility or disinterest.

this conclusion to the later period which is far less persuasive for the reasons given here (M. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East: Cross-cultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades, trans. P. Holt, rev. K. Hirschler, The Muslim World in the Age of the Crusades (Leiden, 2013), 51, 80, 89). 64  Brett describes the Fatimid struggle against the Franks as ‘the longest period of campaigning in the last century of the dynasty’s existence’: Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 17. 65 Brett, Fatimid Empire, 237–40; Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians, 136; Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 133–7. 66  Original text: Bartolf of Nangis, ‘Gesta Francorum’, 527. 67  Lev, ‘Regime, army and society’, 147. See also: Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 194–6, 294–5; Tibble, Crusader Armies, 246, 250; Lev, ‘Infantry in Muslim armies during the Crusades’, Logistics of Warfare in the Age of the Crusades, ed. J. Pryor (Aldershot, 2006), 191. 68  IAA(C), vol. 1, 93; Y.  Lev, ‘Infantry in Muslim armies during the Crusades’, 192; Thomson, Politics and Power, 44, 51. Hamblin also identifies divisions during the 1105 campaign: Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 292; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 220.

62  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Another thought on the question of the fighting qualities of armies made up from different ethnic groups is supplied by Nizam al-Mulk in his book of advice to the Seljuk Sultan Malik Shah. In this work he idealizes the formation of armies in this way; his reason being that the various different contingents will seek to excel either other.69 The Byzantine military manual Sylloge Tacticorum also speaks favourably about armies of this kind, noting that companies drawn from different ethnic groups are less likely to conspire with one another against the Byzantine state.70 These voices from other societies serve to indicate that armies formed from different ethnic groups had strengths as well as weaknesses. Overall it is necessary to recognize the hurdle Frankish armies had to surmount in tackling their large, well-equipped Fatimid opponents. Their chances of victory in a straightforward head-to-head pitched battle were slim and so instead they used their cavalry to try and catch their foes off guard. The Fatimid army for its part was a numerous and well-equipped force but it proved unable to devise an effective answer to the Franks’ sudden charges. The accusation has been made that the Fatimid army in a number of these encounters was poorly led. This is possible; certainly no Fatimid commander was able to find a solution to the problem posed by the kingdom of Jerusalem.71

The Turks: Aleppo and Damascus Even before the First Crusade, the Syrian Turks’ position in Syria and the Jazira was tenuous. The region had only been under Turkish control since the mid 1070s and the Turks represented a thin ruling veneer governing a large and diverse populace. Moreover, the Fatimid Empire to the south-east had proved to be a tenacious sparring partner. Turkish rule had been consolidated somewhat by the arrival of Sultan Malik Shah in the mid-1080s but his death in 1092 plunged the area into disarray. After the sultan’s death, the Syrian region itself was ruled by Malik Shah’s brother Tutush and he soon embarked on an attempt to become sultan that ended in his death in 1095. He was succeeded in turn by his sons Ridwan and Duqaq who came to rule Aleppo and Damascus respectively. They then began to make war against one another and in 1097 Ridwan made an abortive attempt to seize power in Damascus. The First Crusade arrived soon afterwards, weakening Turkish authority still further. At no point during the Turkish invasions into the Near East had the 69  Nizam al-Mulk, The Book of Government of Rules for Kings, trans. H. Darke (Routledge, 2015), 100–1. 70  A Tenth-Century Byzantine Military Manual: The Sylloge Tacticorum, trans. G.  Chatzelis and J. Harris, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies (Abingdon, 2017), 34. 71  For discussion on Fatimid leadership during these ventures see: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 236, 250; Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid Army’, 193–4.

Friends and Foes  63 Seljuks and their allies suffered such consistent reverses at the hands of any ­opponent and the defeat of so many of their major field armies in short succession was to have serious repercussions. Rebellions broke out in many areas. The Armenian lords in the north seized the opportunity presented by the Crusade and either sided with the Franks or asserted their independence (see section ‘The  Armenian Lords’ below). Many Arab tribes likewise moved assertively against their Turkish overlords. The Banu Uqayl, rulers of Qal‘at Ja‘bar and former rulers of Mosul, soon became allies of the county of Edessa.72 Authors including Michael the Syrian and Albert of Aachen report the rising friction between Turks and Arabs while the Gesta Francorum observed that the Turks were extremely concerned about the impact of their defeats on their Arabs subjects, with some Turkish commanders even going to the length of mis-reporting their crushing defeats as victories so as to avoid trouble.73 In the south, many of the Bedouin tribes in Transjordan sided with the Franks while even a few Turkish warlords, including Balduk of Samosata and Omar of Azaz, sought to strike up accords with the incoming Crusaders.74 By 1099, Turkish authority, particularly in Northern Syria, was on the verge of collapse. The main Turkish ruler in this area was Ridwan, ruler of Aleppo, and at the time of the First Crusade he was confronted by many challenges. Firstly, his  army had been defeated by the Franks outside Antioch. Secondly, his Arab subjects were in rebellion. Thirdly, he was still at odds with his brother Duqaq in  Damascus. This internecine quarrel had become so bitter that back in 1097 Ridwan had called upon the Fatimids for aid.75 This Seljuk–Fatimid accord served Ridwan’s immediate needs and may have appeased the many Shia communities across his lands, but it enraged Ridwan’s Turkish peers (who were at least nominally Sunni and aligned with the Abbasid caliph). From their perspective, Ridwan had broken ranks and he was soon compelled to abandon his alliance. Fourthly, Ridwan’s relations with his father-in-law, Janah al-Dawla, had descended into acrimony and, while the Franks were besieging Antioch, Ridwan was preparing to attack Janah al-Dalwa in his town of Homs.76 Fifthly, Ridwan was also quarrelling with his vizier77 who took refuge with the Banu Munqidh at Shaizar (an Arab dynasty that remained conspicuously neutral in the face of the Crusader advance) and, sixthly, in 1097 he faced an urban revolt in Aleppo from the city’s rais. 72 Köhler, Alliances and Treatise, 125. 73  GF, 22–3; AA, 534; MS, 624–5. Note also that following the defeat of the People’s Crusade at Civetot and then later following Karbugha’s defeat of the Frankish garrison at Iron Bridge, captured weapons are said to have been sent out to other Muslim leaders, see: RA, 45; OV, vol. 5, 96. 74  For discussion on the Bedouin see above, section ‘The First Decades: the Kingdom of Jerusalem under Godfrey and Baldwin I, 1099–1118’. For Balak of Saruj and Balduk of Samosata and their relations with Baldwin of Boulogne see: AA, 176–8, 260 and 360–2. For Omar of Azaz’s relations with the Crusaders see: KAD, 586; AA, 344–54; RA, 88–9. 75 IAA(AST), 294.   76 KAD, 577.   77  KAD, 577.

64  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Seventhly, in the summer of 1098 Omar, Ridwan’s governor in Azaz, rebelled against him and began co-operating with the Franks.78 Even so, Ridwan survived. This can be explained in part by his alliance with the Nizaris who had a major community in Aleppo and seem to have been prepared to carry out assassinations at Ridwan’s request. In addition, the region’s other Turkish leaders had their own problems—whether Frankish invasions or local rebellions—to worry about and posed no immediate threat. Another factor is that Ridwan was generally able to raise large numbers of troops. Gauging the scale of forces at his disposal is not without its challenges, but it seems likely that he could expect to raise a force of perhaps 7–8,000. This is a guesstimate. The clearest numbers we have for major Aleppan armies pertain to Ridwan’s advance against the First Crusaders outside Antioch in 1097, culminating in the so-called ‘Lake ­battle’, and later in 1105 his clash with Tancred of Antioch near Artah. For the former, two well-informed First Crusaders suggest an overall Turkish force of 12,000 which as France argued seems plausible.79 This was not, however, a wholly Aleppan army and it seems to have included a sizeable Artuqid contingent led by Sokman (a leader who at Harran in 1104 is said to have raised 7000 troops).80 Ridwan may also have been supported by jihad volunteers. At Artah in 1105 Ridwan was fighting alone, but Albert of Aachen’s suggestion that he fielded 30,000 troops is improbably high and Kamal al-Din does not supply a figure for the Turkish cavalry (normally the largest contingent), only the infantry. The jihad volunteers mentioned by Ibn al-Athir would presumably have been a temporary and variable element in Ridwan’s forces (rather like pilgrim forces arriving to ­support the Crusader States). Inferring from these figures, a total 7–8000 troops seems about right (Table 2.2). Table 2.2  Armies raised by Aleppan rulers (1097–1110) 1097 ‘Lake Battle’

1105 Battle of Artah

1108 Battle allied with Tancred against Baldwin of Edessa and Jawuli

30,000 troops (Albert of Aachen) 12,000 Turks (Anselm of Ribemont and Stephen of Blois)81 15,000 troops (Ralph of Caen) 10,000 cavalry and 20,000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 3000 Turkish dead (Kamal al-Din) A large force of cavalry and 7000 infantry including 3000 Jihad volunteers (Ibn al-Athir) 600 cavalry—Ridwan’s contingent sent to support Tancred (Ibn al-Athir)

78 KAD, 585.   79 France, Victory in the East, 246.   80  IAA(C), vol. 1, 79. 81  Kreuzzugsbriefe, 151, 158.

AA, 232 RC, 55 AA, 702 KAD, 593 IAA(C), vol. 1, 92 IAA(C), vol. 1, 141

Friends and Foes  65 With this army, in the early years of the Crusader settlement, Ridwan made occasional sallies against the Franks, despite being encumbered by his ongoing quarrels. In 1100 he advanced against Frankish Antioch but was defeated by Bohemond at Kella.82 Briefly he agreed to pay tribute to the Antiochenes but then in 1104 he seized the opportunity created by the Frankish defeat at Harran to stage a series of attacks against Antioch. Ridwan’s ascendency, however, was short-lived and he was seriously defeated by Tancred at Artah in 1105. From this point onwards, Ridwan scarcely ever took the field against the Franks, making a treaty with them in 1107, and even siding with the Antiochenes in their struggle with Edessa in 1108.83 This battle came about when Baldwin of Bourcq was released from captivity only to find that Tancred would not allow him to reassume power in Edessa. Turkish leaders involved themselves on both sides of this dispute, but in Ridwan’s case he would have been concerned by the alliance between Baldwin and the Turkish commander Jawuli, a former ruler of Mosul who was rumoured to be seeking to supplant Ridwan in Aleppo.84 Despite this brief alliance, Ridwan risked a raid against Antioch two years later while Tancred was supporting the Edessans. This then provoked heavy retaliation from the Franks who raided Aleppo and seized several frontier locations over the next few months. Hostilities only ceased in 1111 when Ridwan paid a heavy tribute to Tancred (Table 2.3).85 Consequently, Ridwan’s relationship with the Franks includes only sporadic moments of conflict interspersed with periods of ‘peace’—often purchased at a high price—and occasional instances of co-operation. His willingness to avoid conflict or even to yield tribute can be explained in part by the efficacy of Frankish arms, but perhaps more so by his ongoing entanglement in the Seljuk politics of Syria and the Jazira which will now be discussed. To take a few examples: Ridwan’s abovementioned quarrel with Janah al-Dawla which began in 1097 represented a Table 2.3  Incursions launched by or against Aleppo’s rulers (1099–1128)

Offensive (against Franks) Defensive (against Franks) Offensive (against others) Defensive (against others)

1099–1109

1110–19

1120–8

5 6

2 12

986 13

4 5

2 5

1 5

82 KAD, 588.   83 IQ, 78.   84  IAA(C), vol. 1, 141.    85  KAD, 598. 86  From 1117–18, Aleppo was ruled by various members of the Artuqid dynasty. These leaders fought a wide range of offensive and defensive campaigns on multiple fronts. Given that this table seeks to explore the campaigning taking place around Aleppo, only those campaigns against Aleppo’s hinterland or staged around Aleppo’s frontiers are included here. Campaigns with very little connection to Aleppo, such as Ilghazi’s war with the Georgians, are not included.

66  The Crusader States and their Neighbours longstanding issue and the rivalries between two leaders persisted, resulting in a battle at Sarmin in 1102–3.87 The matter was only resolved in 1103 when Janah al-Dawla was assassinated, quite possibly on Ridwan’s orders given his close ­relationship with the Nizaris.88 Ridwan seized his late father-in-law’s town of Balis the following year.89 Ridwan also faced a threat from the north and in 1106 the Anatolian Seljuk sultan, Qilij Arslan I, advanced through the county of Edessa and took possession of the town of Harran, located to the north-east of Aleppo.90 Although time would prove that this intervention was a one-off, there was a real danger that the Anatolian Seljuks might descend from the north. Ridwan’s quarrel with his brother Duqaq of Damascus likewise showed little sign of abating, despite the common threat from the Franks. This resulted in a series of jurisdictional disputes and clashes over the towns of Hama and Homs, which lay between their respective city-states.91 Ridwan even tried to seize Damascus following his brother’s death in 1104.92 Then in 1107 Ridwan became embroiled in a quarrel over the governance of Mosul, supporting the sultan’s candidate called Jawuli against the existing ruler Jokermish who was supported by the Anatolian Seljuks. This occupied his energies and troops for much of 1107–8 and by the end of this period relations had deteriorated significantly between Jawuli and Ridwan, leading ultimately to the abovementioned battle between Edessa/Jawuli and Antioch/Ridwan.93 In this way, despite making infrequent and unsuccessful attacks against the Franks in his early years, Ridwan had strong incentives to avoid conflict with Antioch and Edessa as much as possible for the remainder of the decade, given that he was confronted with multiple challenges from his Turkish peers. He also faced attacks from the region’s Arab tribes in 1100 and 1106.94 The situation in Damascus was slightly different. The city was staunchly Sunni and was far more willing to support its Turkish masters. Duqaq was nominally in control, but by 1099 he was probably only about sixteen and effective rule was in the hands of his atabeg, Tughtakin.95 Spiritually speaking, Tughtakin appears in the sources as a transitional figure, holding onto many of the shamanistic beliefs and practices of his forefathers. Nevertheless, he was also part of the at least nominally-Sunni Turkish ruling class and this alignment seems to have been sufficient to secure the city’s support.96 The Franks themselves posed no immediate threat to Damascus during the First Crusade having deliberately chosen to 87 KAD, 589.   88 IQ, 57–8.   89 KAD, 592.   90  IQ, 74. 91  KAD, 592; IQ, 58.    92 KAD, 593.   93 IQ, 80.   94  KAD, 588; ME, 199. 95  Duqaq is thought to have been born in c.1083: T. El-Azhari, ‘Duqāq (d. 1104)’, The Crusades: an Encyclopedia, ed. A. Murray, vol. 2 (Santa Barbara, 2006), 367. 96 For discussion on his spiritual/religious identity see: N.  Morton, ‘Walter the Chancellor on Ilghazi and Tughtakin: a prisoner’s perspective’, Journal of Medieval History, 44:2 (2018), 170–86: C. Hillenbrand, ‘What’s in a name? Tughtegin: the ‘minister of the Antichrist’, Fortresses of the Intellect: Ismaili and Other Islamic Studies in Honour of Farhad Daftary, ed. Omar Ali-de-Onzaga (London, 2011), 463–75.

Friends and Foes  67 avoid the city and its hinterland on their advance towards Jerusalem.97 Tughtakin, however, led Damascene forces against the Franks on two occasions during the siege of Antioch: (1) in the expedition of 1097 which ended with the so-called ‘foraging battle’ on 31 December,98 and then (2) as part of Karbugha’s army in the summer of 1098.99 Afterwards, a Damascene delegation led by the city’s qadi travelled to Baghdad asking for help in 1099.100 Tughtakin’s [Duqaq’s] subsequent policies towards the Crusader States are quite distinctive. Most importantly, between 1099 and 1109 Tughtakin scarcely ever tried to tackle the kingdom of Jerusalem directly. Even with the withdrawal of the First Crusade, he did not seize the opportunity to attack the Franks. In this way, his actions stand in stark contrast to the Fatimids and their aggressive—if unsuccessful—assaults on the kingdom of Jerusalem during these years. Clearly this was deeply frustrating for some devout Sunni observers and, as the pious alSulami pointed out in c.1105, the Franks were ripe for conquest being a long way from home and lacking in horses.101 Instead Tughtakin appears to have adopted a more circumspect policy. Only once did he tackle the kingdom directly in 1108 when he staged an attack on Tiberias, but even then he showed little inclination to push on towards the coast.102 His other incursions were generally brief raids and opportunistic attacks. He also sent forces to support both the 1105 Fatimid invasion and to buttress the coastal cities when they were besieged by the Franks. Tughtakin’s policy towards Raymond of Toulouse (future founder of the county of Tripoli) was rather more bullish and in 1102 he made a concerted attempt to defeat his forces at Tortosa. This resulted in a serious defeat, but in later years Tughtakin did continue to apply pressure to the county’s borders.103 Another distinctive feature characterizing much of Tughtakin’s offensive campaigning against the Franks—which holds broadly true well into the 1120s—was his marked aversion to fighting major battles against them on his own. He (or  Duqaq) nearly always worked with powerful allies when chancing a major encounter. Thus he allied with: Janah al-Dawla at Dog River in 1100 and then at Tortosa in 1102, with the Fatimids at Ramla in 1105, with Mawdud of Mosul near Tiberias in 1113, with Ilghazi at Tell Danith in 1119, with Balak at Azaz in 1124, and Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi at Azaz in 1125. On other occasions, when attacking with only his owns forces he tended to pull back when he encountered serious resistance and in 1109 he withdrew so precipitously from an incursion against the  county of Tripoli that he abandoned his baggage train.104 The cumulative

97  AA, 394. See also: IAA(C), vol. 1, 15. 98  For discussion: France, Victory in the East, 237–41.   99  IAA(C), vol. 1, 16; KAD, 580. 100  IAA(C), vol. 1, 22; O. Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword: Muslim Poetic Responses to the Crusades, The Muslim World in the Age of the Crusades III (Leiden, 2018), 67. 101 al-Sulami, The Book of the Jihad of ‘Ali ibn Tahir al-Sulami (d.1106): Text, Translation and Commentary, trans. N. Christie (Farnham, 2015), 235. 102 IQ, 86–7.   103 IQ, 55.   104  IQ, 88; IAA(C), vol. 1, 143.

68  The Crusader States and their Neighbours experience of the above battles would presumably have only increased his caution given that his forces were defeated in all but one of the above encounters (he was also defeated on the defensive in 1126). Tughtakin’s decidedly restrained policy towards the kingdom of Jerusalem in its early years is highly significant, representing an important factor enabling the kingdom’s establishment. Indeed, prima facie it could be argued that he missed a conspicuous opportunity to drive the Franks into the sea (which seems to have been al-Sulami’s view). Even so, several reasons can be advanced to explain his restraint. Firstly, Damascus had not lost much territory to the First Crusaders. Formerly, Jerusalem had been governed by the emir Artuq who was independent of Duqaq.105 Consequently, while overall Turkish hegemony over the region had suffered a blow with Jerusalem’s fall, this had not significantly affected his own powerbase. Secondly, the kingdom of Jerusalem now represented a significant buffer between Turkish Damascus and Fatimid Egypt; formerly a contested frontier zone. With the Franks soaking up the Fatimid assaults, which might otherwise have been directed against the Turks (their longstanding opponents), Tughtakin may have seen little reason to prioritize their destruction. Thirdly, the Franks’ assaults on the coastal ports were driving these cities’ leaders to seek Turkish protection.106 Hitherto, these cities had been within the Fatimids’ sphere of influence, but now they were starting to turn—voluntarily—to Damascus for support; a very desirable state of affairs. Admittedly this kind of situation was hardly new. Back in the 1070s the coastal cities had frequently sought Turkish help against the Fatimids who were then seeking to force them to accept their formal control.107 Even the Fatimids were starting to appeal for Tughtakin’s assistance, requesting both his political support and his troops.108 Viewed from this perspective, Frankish Jerusalem and its early military focus on the coastline actually—in the short-medium term—played into Tughtakin’s hands, elevating Damascus to a hegemonic status vis-à-vis the coastal cities and even, to some extent, the Fatimids themselves. With little prospect of a major Frankish assault upon his own lands, this situation could be perceived as tolerable, possibly even desirable. Another factor in this equation is the Franks’ proven capabilities in battle. Tughtakin had suffered defeat repeatedly at their hands during the First Crusade and the Franks’ ongoing victories over the Fatimids might likewise have provided a strong incentive to hold back and let other powers take the lead. Presumably his assault on Raymond of Toulouse’s forces at Tortosa was intended to destroy the small Frankish forces before they could establish a foothold. Even against these diminutive forces, however, his troops were unsuccessful, providing yet another disincentive for engaging the more powerful—relatively speaking—kingdom of 105  For the gift of Jerusalem to Artuq see: IAA (AST), 224. 106 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 89.   107 Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians, 113. 108  Their first request was in 1102: IQ, 58.

Friends and Foes  69 Jerusalem. A striking, if rather late, example which highlights Tughtakin’s caution when facing Frankish cavalry can be seen in 1118. In this year Joscelin of Courtenay (then lord of Tiberias) launched a long-distance raid into Damascene territory with a force of 130 knights. He had scored a number of successes but was later trapped on a hilltop by Tughtakin’s son Buri. Tughtakin himself arrived soon after and instructed his son not to attack the Franks directly, but instead to maintain their vigilance and prevent the Franks from escaping. Buri however ignored his orders and attacked up the hill. This decision was every bit as disastrous as his father had predicted and the Damascene army was routed by a Frankish cavalry charge. On this occasion, Tughtakin’s advice proved correct, but it also demonstrates his considerable caution when faced with even a small number of Frankish cavalry.109 Moreover, while the Damascenes undoubtedly had a strong numerical advantage over the Frankish states in their early years, the Franks soon built up their armies to a point where they could compete with Damascene forces on relatively equal terms. Establishing the sizes of the respective armies raised by Jerusalem and Damascus is not an exact science; neither polity fielded standing armies and both were dependent to some extent on seasonal troops (pilgrims for Jerusalem, Turkmen tribes and urban militias for Damascus) whose participation was ad hoc at best. Having said this it seems likely that the kingdom of Jerusalem could assemble an army of around 4–6000 troops by the end of its first decade (see Table 5.2). With regard to the Damascene army, Table 2.4 lists every reference to a Damascene force raised between 1099 and 1154 (excluding numbers that are wildly out of scope). Although some of these estimates are rather high, such as Albert of Aachen’s suggestion that there were 20,000 Turkish and Arab troops present at Dog River in 1100, it is notable that many of the figures supplied by both Christian and Muslim authors fall within the 2–5000 range. Their consistency renders them plausible and it is notable that even as late as 1252 the Damascene army was estimated at 4000 strong.110 By extension, Humphries in his analysis of Ayyubid Damascus suggests that, at its absolute maximum, the city could raise about 6000 troops.111 Reflecting on these numbers, there was only a narrow window of opportunity during which the Damascene forces would have substantially outnumbered the kingdom of Jerusalem’s army. Tughtakin had good reasons not to take this opportunity, but this inaction naturally had the result of enabling the establishment of the kingdom of Jerusalem. Consequently, Tughtakin seems to have been content primarily to limit Frankish expansion rather than destroying their states altogether. 109  IAA(C), vol. 1, 196. 110  John of Joinville, ‘The Life of Saint Louis’, 274. 111 R.  Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: the Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193–1260 (Albany, 1977), 253. In another work Humphreys also cited Ibn Wasil who claims that the Damascene army in the early thirteenth century numbered around 3000 troops: R.  Humphreys, ‘The emergence of the Mamluk army’, Studia Islamica, 45 (1977), 74.

70  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 2.4  Armies raised by Damascene rulers (1099–1130) Battle at Dog River (1100) Battle of Tortosa (1102) Battle of Ramla (1105) Jerusalemite attack (1106) Incursion into Tiberias region (1106) Expedition to Transjordan (1107) Incursion into Tiberias region (1108) Relief force sent to the siege of Sidon (1108) Attack on the county of Tripoli (1109) Attempt to relieve the siege of Tyre (1112) Against Bursuq of Hamadhan (1115) Artuqid invasion of Antioch (1120) Artuqid invasion of Antioch (1122) Second battle of Azaz (1125)

Jerusalemite invasion (1126) Jerusalemite invasion (1129) Reinforcements sent to Zangi (1129–30)

3000 Turks—combined army from Homs and Damascus (Caffaro) 20,000—Damascus alone (Albert of Aachen) 2000 troops—Damascus alone (Ibn al-Athir)

Caffaro, ‘Annales Ianuenses’, 6 AA, 530 IAA(C), vol. 1, 60

1300 cavalry—Damascene contingent (Ibn al-Athir) 1000 Turkish archers—Damascene contingent (Fulcher of Chartres) 4000 Turks (Fulcher of Chartres)

IAA(C), vol. 1, 93

3000 Turks (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 742

3000 Turks (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 744

4000 cavalry (Albert of Aachen) 2000 cavalry and also unspecified infantry forces (Ibn al-Athir) 15,000 troops (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 768 IAA(C), vol. 1, 142 AA, 764

4000 cavalry (Ibn al-Athir) 20,000 cavalry (Albert of Aachen)

IAA(C), vol. 1, 143 AA, 832

8000 troops (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 856

3000 troops—Damascene reinforcements (Fulcher of Chartres) 10,000 troops—total Artquid force including Damascene reinforcements (Fulcher of Chartres) 15,000 troops—combined force: Tughtakin of Damascus and Aqsunqur of Mosul and Aleppo (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 12,000 Turks (Michael the Syrian) 3000 Turks (Fulcher of Chartres)

FC, 640

8000 troops including Turkmen warriors and Bedouin (Ibn al-Athir) 500 troops (Ibn al-Qalanisi)

IAA(C), vol. 1, 27.

FC, 490 FC, 51.

FC, 650 FC, 769; WT, 606

MS, 643 FC, 789

IQ, 200

Friends and Foes  71 He does seem to have been more concerned about Baldwin I’s penetration into Transjordan and the Hawran and on this front at least he was relatively assertive. In December 1105 he attacked and destroyed a castle which the Franks were building at Al- ‘al112 and in 1106–7 he granted Transjordan to an allied Turkmen tribe in the hope that they would drive out the Franks.113 This venture however proved unsuccessful and so in 1108 he managed to stabilize the situation briefly by splitting the revenues from the Hawran and Jabal Awf with the kingdom of Jerusalem (one-third to Damascus; two-thirds to Jerusalem) (Table 2.5).114 Another set of pressures guiding Tughtakin’s hand were his relations with his Turkish peers. It is conspicuous for example that within months of Jerusalem’s fall to the Franks in 1099, the Damascenes raised a large army and then, rather than fighting the Franks, marched hundreds of miles to the north-east to Mayyafariqin.115 The town’s governor had rebelled against Duqaq’s authority. This action is indicative in several ways. Firstly, Tughtakin’s willingness to allow the army to travel so far from Damascus implies that he feared no Frankish assault. Secondly, it demonstrates that his master’s dynastic interests took precedence over any notion of fighting the Franks. Exactly how Tughtakin planned to hold onto distant Mayyafariqin is unclear. Perhaps part of the answer to this question lies in Tughtakin’s subsequent conquest of the town of Rahba, which he seized from the Arab Banu Shayban in 1103.116 Notably Rahba had been a waypoint on Tughtakin’s earlier journey to secure Mayyafariqin and so its conquest in this year may suggest that he wished to secure a clear route.117 Controlling Rahba also gave the Damascenes a path to the north which circumvented the lands of their rival, Ridwan of Aleppo. If this was his plan, however, it was unsuccessful because Mayyafariqin was lost in 1105.118 Of course, another possible motive for conquering Rahba may have been Table 2.5  Incursions launched by or against Damascus’ rulers (1099–1128)

Offensive (against Franks)119 Defensive (against Franks) Offensive (against others) Defensive (against others)120

1099–1109

1110–19

1120–8

9 8

5 11

5 5

7 5

4 1

2 2

112 IQ, 72.   113 IQ, 81.   114 IQ, 92.   115  IQ, 49. 116  IQ, 56–7; IAA(C), vol. 1, 72–3.    117  IQ, 49. 118 Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence, 343. 119  This includes attacks on Frankish forces outside Frankish territory, but not attacking Damascene territory. For example, Tughtakin’s attempt to waylay Baldwin of Edessa (future Baldwin I of Jerusalem) at Dog River. 120 This figure includes rebellions both in Damascus itself and in other regions controlled by Damascus’ rulers.

72  The Crusader States and their Neighbours to secure Damascene control over the desert route connecting this town to Damascus’ hinterland. The civil war in Iraq of the Seljuk Sultanate continued to rumble on during these years, so possession of Rahba gave Damascus a fair amount of security on this important route and a listening post from which to observe the ongoing disputes over the succession to Malik Shah. Whatever his motives, his prioritization of these concerns demonstrates that the Frankish wars were of secondary importance. Ridwan of Aleppo represented another threat to Damascene rule and the rivalry between the Ridwan and Duqaq continued unabated even after the First Crusade. In 1101 Damascus and Homs sent forces to seize the important crossing of the Euphrates at Balis from Ridwan. Their success in this venture would have been a major blow for Ridwan given that the town controlled a major line of communication into the Jazira and, by extension, into the heartlands of the Seljuk sultanate. Ridwan’s riposte to this act was to retake Balis in 1104. Later the same year he attempted to conquer Damascus itself. The trigger for this ambitious expedition was the death of Duqaq on 8 June 1104 after a prolonged illness. Scenting an opportunity, Ridwan came south, hoping to take control. In the event his brief siege failed and he was bought off with the promise that the khutbah would be said in his name. Duqaq’s sucession quickly became a contentious matter. His named successor was his son Tutush, but Tughtakin decided instead to install Duqaq’s brother Muhyi al-Din, who had formerly been incarcerated in Baalbek. His rule, however, was brief and soon Muhyi al-Din felt it necessary to flee from Tughtakin and establish himself in Baalbek. Exactly why they fell out is unclear, but the strong possibility has to be considered that Tughtakin was in the process of conducting a straightforward power grab, seeking to formalize his de facto rule over the city. Tughtakin then named Tutush (son of Duqaq) as the city’s ruler, but he died soon after.121 Muhyi al-Din himself later attempted to secure Frankish support and then fled to take refuge in Rahba. Reviewing the above, in the first decade of Crusader establishment, Damascus was rarely in a position to focus its attention squarely on the Franks given that it also had to address a broader array of dynastic opportunities and threats. Faced with many uncertainties, Tughtakin seems to have adopted a cautious policy towards the Franks; seeking to restrict their growth but not contesting their ­possession of Jerusalem. By doing so, he secured a buffer against the Fatimids whilst compelling the coastal cities to come to him for help rather than relying on their longstanding overlords in Fatimid Cairo. For the Franks of course, both Ridwan and Tughtakin’s policies gave them considerable freedom of movement leading Fulcher of Chartres to comment: ‘But why did they not dare? Why did so

121  IQ, 63–5.

Friends and Foes  73 many people and so many kingdoms fear to invade our little kingdom and our humble people?’122 The situation for both the Aleppan and Damascene Turks became even more complex in later years. The ongoing Seljuk civil war that had erupted in Iraq and Persia following Malik Shah’s death concluded in 1105 with the victory of Sultan Mohammed. At the time of his accession, the sultanate confronted many dangers. Sultan Mohammed himself is said to have declared that the suppression of the Nizaris was his greatest priority, but there were many other demands requiring his attention.123 He needed to restate his authority over the sultanate, particularly in light of the threat posed by the Anatolian Seljuks to the Jazira and Northern Syria. In addition, soon after his rise to power, his supporters began spreading rumours that his longstanding supporter, Sadaqa, leader of the Arab Banu Mazyad tribe, was turning against him. The collapse of this relationship led ultimately to a series of pitched battles in Iraq in 1108 which ended in Sadaqa’s defeat and execution. Given these important preoccupations, the sultan had little opportunity to consider how he might restate his rule over the Seljuk Empire’s distant satellites in Damascus and Aleppo; still less to consider how he might deal with the Franks. In a sense, the ongoing entanglement of Sultan Mohammed in other concerns was desirable for both Ridwan of Aleppo and Tughtakin of Damascus. While both would have valued reinforcements from the east, there was a danger that the new sultan might use any intervention in Syria to try to curb or restrict their authority or perhaps even to strip them of power altogether. This danger was especially acute for Tughtakin who had taken power in Damascus, following Duqaq’s death, without subsequently securing a diploma confirming his position from the sultan.124 This fear of eastern intervention was to become a major factor in their respective policies for much of the 1110s. The first serious effort made by Sultan Mohammed to despatch a new army into Syria—ostensibly against the Franks—occurred in 1107. This was the abovementioned episode when Jawuli was sent to take power in Mosul; the idea being that he would then use the city’s resources to fight the Franks. The outcome however was simply a period of infighting among the region’s Turkish rulers. A more worrying piece of news reached in Damascus in 1109. In this year, Tughtakin received word from Sultan Mohammed that he was planning to lead an army against the Franks and that Damascus should hold its forces in preparation for such an eventuality. Initially Tughtakin seems to have been pleased by this prospect and he even set out in person to the sultan’s court in the hope of making a personal representation for aid. Even so, he turned back midway through his 122  Translation: Fulcher of Chartres, A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem: 1095–1127, trans. F. Ryan (New York, 1969), 149. Latin: FC, 388–9. 123  IAA(C), vol. 1, 118. 124  T. El-Azhari, ‘Diplomatic relations and coinage among the Turcomans, the Ayyubids and the Crusaders: Pragmatism and Change of Identity’, Syria in Crusader Times: Conflict and Coexistence, ed. C. Hillenbrand (Edinburgh, 2020), 109.

74  The Crusader States and their Neighbours journey on receiving rumours that the sultan was planning to transfer control over Syria to his own emirs. In the event, on learning why Tughtakin had withdrawn, the sultan sent new messengers re-assuring Tughtakin and dismissing his concerns.125 This incident was ultimately a non-event, but it bears witness to Tughtakin’s anxieties concerning any restatement of Seljuk power in Syria. By 1109 it had been decades since the sultan had any meaningful authority in the region, but the danger of intervention remained. Seemingly for this reason, both Ridwan and Tughtakin proved to be cautious about offering their support to the major armies despatched annually from the sultanate into the region between 1110 and 1115.126 They had good reason. These armies are almost ubiquitously described as very large indeed, far bigger than the  forces available in either Damascus or Aleppo (see Table  2.6). Albert of Aachen’s suggestion that Mawdud of Mosul could raise 30,000 troops in 1113 feels rather high, although the idea needs to be taken seriously that, with the sultan’s support, Mosul was capable of calling upon tens of thousands of troops. Mosul was well located to raise large armies given that it lay in close proximity to the Turkmen pastures in the northern Jazira and Diyar Bakr and it was able to reach out for aid to the heartlands of the Seljuk sultanate in Iraq and Persia. Further corroboration for the notion that these armies from Mosul and further east could number in the tens of thousands can be seen in the multi-contingent force assembled by Karbugha to challenge the First Crusade’s siege of Antioch (1098). Historians have generally accepted that Karbugha’s army was enormous—Barber suggests 35,000 strong, Asbridge 40,000.127 When Mosul was fighting alone, contemporaries put its military forces at about 7000 cavalry which is probably a reasonable guide. Certainly, several decades later in 1176, Ibn al-Athir, drawing upon a formal administrative record of an army raised by the Zangid ruler Sayf al-Din, claimed that Mosul could deploy 6000–6500 cavalry.128 The first army to reach Syria (1110) was led by Mawdud of Mosul and Sokman al-Qutbi in response to the sultan’s orders. These were both competent warriors, but it is striking that the sultan is not known to have made any effort to recruit either Tughtakin or Ridwan to lead this campaign against the Franks, even though they were ideally positioned for this role. In the event, while Mawdud besieged Edessa and sought to trap Frankish reinforcements arriving from the southern Crusader States, Tughtakin offered rather tentative support to Mawdud’s army while Ridwan offered no support at all.129 Presumably they feared that Mawdud’s army would seek to curb their independence and this danger may well have been 125 IQ, 94–6.   126 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 100. 127 Barber, Crusader States, 77; T. Asbridge, The Crusades: the Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land (New York, 2010), 72. 128  IAA(C), vol. 2, 242. Although El-Azhari considers the Mosul army to have been somewhat larger at around 10,000 troops: El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response to the Crusades, 49. 129  IQ, 102–5.

Friends and Foes  75 Table 2.6  Armies raised by the rulers of Mosul along with other major armies despatched into the Levant by the Seljuk Sultan (1107–26) Armies from Mosul and other large combined forces (1100–27) Jawuli’s battle against the Anatolian Seljuks (1107) Jawuli and Baldwin of Edessa’s battle with Ridwan and Tancred (1108)130 Mawdud’s invasion of the county of Edessa (1110) Mawdud’s invasion of the kingdom of Jerusalem (1113) Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi’s campaign against Edessa and the Artuqids (1114) Bursuq of Hamadhan’s allied force and its attack on Syria (1115) Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi’s war on Dubays (1123) Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi’s relief of Aleppo (1125) Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi’s advance on Antioch (1125) Second battle of Azaz (1125)

Siege of al-Atharib (1126)

4000 cavalry (Bar Hebraeus and Ibn al-Athir) 5000 cavalry—Jawuli’s contingent (Matthew of Edessa) 7000 Turks—Jawuli’s contingent (Fulcher of Chartres) 40,000 cavalry (Albert of Aachen)

BH, vol. 1, 240; IAA(C), vol. 1, 116 ME, 201

30,000—Mawdud’s forces alone (Albert of Aachen) 7000 cavalry (Bar Hebraeus) 15,000 troops (Bar Hebraeus and Ibn al-Athir)

AA, 836

40,000 Turks—with 15,000 casualties at Tell Danith (Albert of Aachen) 10,000 troops (Walter the Chancellor) 8000 cavalry and 5000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir) 7000 cavalry (William of Tyre and Fulcher of Chartres) 6000 cavalry (Fulcher of Chartres)

AA, 852, 856

15,000 troops—combined force: Tughtakin of Damascus and Aqsunqur of Mosul and Aleppo (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 40,000 troops—combined force: Tughtakin of Damascus and Aqsunqur of Mosul and Aleppo (Matthew of Edessa) 6000 troops—Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi (Fulcher of Chartres)

FC, 769; WT, 606

FC, 480 AA, 794

BH, vol. 1, 245 BH, vol. 1, 246; IAA(C), vol. 1, 166

WC, 67 IAA(C), vol. 1, 243 WT, 603; FC, 754 FC, 757

ME, 234

FC, 803

apparent given that one contingent of this army was sent further north into Anatolian Seljuk territory, both to fight against the Byzantines but also to enforce Sultan Mohammed’s hegemony over the Anatolian ruler Shahanshah (son and successor to Qilij Arslan d. 1107).131 Relations between Aleppo and the sultanate deteriorated still further during the 1111 campaign. This second campaign was provoked when a deputation of 130  Admittedly by this stage Jawuli had been ousted from power in Mosul. 131 C.  Cahen, The Formation of Turkey: the Seljukid Sultanate of Rum, Eleventh to Fourteenth Century (Harlow, 2001), 16.

76  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Aleppan merchants and religious leaders went to Baghdad to demand assistance against the Franks. Consequently, Mawdud was again deputed to advance into Syria. The campaign began much like the first with an attack on Edessa, but then moved south to Aleppo. Mawdud and his coalition had expected Ridwan’s ­support—not unreasonably given that the appeal for help had come from his city—but he shut the gates and strong-armed the populace to withhold their aid. He also employed bands of Nizaris (Assassins) to maintain order. Clearly Ridwan was deeply concerned that his previous behaviour and his known relations with the Nizaris would cause Mawdud to treat him like an enemy.132 For his part, Tughtakin was more willing to offer support and he encouraged Mawdud to march to aid Shaizar which was currently being besieged by the Franks, but eventually he too backed away from the coalition fearing that Mawdud might try and seize Damascus.133 Mawdud made a further—if rather more limited—attack on Edessa in 1112, but in 1113 he staged a major offensive. On this occasion his attack was a direct response to a request from Tughtakin. Tughtakin’s willingness to solicit his aid may be explained at least in part by the news that Mawdud was out of favour with the sultan, who feared that he was plotting against him.134 His reported defiance may have re-assured Tughtakin that Mawdud would not attempt to strip him of his authority/independence, so as to enforce the sultan’s supremacy. The campaign itself was a limited success, advancing against the Frankish frontier town of Tiberias and winning a battle against the Jerusalemite army on 28 June 1113.135 Despite this victory, it seems quite possible that Tughtakin remained concerned about Mawdud’s intentions towards his own authority. Mawdud had sent his wife and son to the sultan before his departure, thereby repairing relations, and several sources report that Tughtakin was once again concerned that Mawdud would try to depose him.136 If true, this may go some way to explaining why Mawdud was assassinated in Damascus on 2 October 1113. Certainly many commentators accuse Tughtakin of masterminding the act.137 Ridwan’s behaviour during this campaign similarly indicates his continued concerns about the arrival of armies from the east. He did not join the expedition in person but sent a token force of 100 troops; a very small contingent—probably despatched in the hope of hoping remaining in favour without offering any real help—but their arrival was treated more as an insult than an expression of aid.138 Relations deteriorated still further the following year when the sultan despatched Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi to take control in Mosul, instructing him then to fight the Franks.139 Soon afterwards Aqsunqur led out his army to attack Edessa. In the event, however, despite a brief siege of Edessa, much of the ensuing 132 IQ, 115.   133 IAA(HA), 33.   134 IQ, 132.   135  IQ, 135; WT, 523–4. 136 IQ, 133.   137  See: ME, 214; IAA(C), vol. 1, 163; AA, 850. 138 IQ, 137.   139  IAA(C), vol. 1,166.

Friends and Foes  77 campaign was spent attempting to force Ilghazi and the Artuqids to submit to the sultan’s authority.140 This was precisely the kind of attempt to centralize the sultan’s authority at the expense of regional rulers that local rulers like Ridwan, Ilghazi, and Tughtakin had long feared. Tughtakin’s own concerns were only amplified by reports that the sultan held him responsible for Mawdud’s death.141 As a result, both Ilghazi and Tughtakin formed a defensive alliance with the Antiochenes against the sultan, even attacking the ruler of Homs who was known to be a loyal supporter of sultan Mohammed.142 The final campaign in 1115 brought these matters to their conclusion. On this occasion the sultan despatched an army under Bursuq of Hamadhan with instructions to defeat Ilghazi, Tughtakin, and the Franks. The threat to their authority was now explicit. Aleppo’s leader, Lulu (Ridwan having died in 1113) was also keen to keep the sultan’s forces out of Syria. His defiance, however, took a rather different form. He initially affected friendship for Bursuq and invited him to Aleppo. Then when Bursuq’s forces were within range he worked with Roger of Antioch to ambush and destroy a large contingent of his army.143 After this initial reverse, Bursuq went on to attack Tughtakin’s town of Hama.144 He then invaded Antioch where, after a series of skirmishes and brief sieges, he was decisively defeated at the battle of Tell Danith (14 September 1115); Tughtakin’s forces then attacked a group of survivors as they fled from Syria.145 The 1115 campaign brought into the full light of day a series of political fault-lines that had played their role in shaping Levantine politics for over a decade. The lords of Damascus, Aleppo, and the Artuqids of Mardin may have been concerned about the expanding Frankish states, but they were even more concerned about intervention from the sultanate. The 1115 campaign essentially forced them to make a choice: should they back the sultan and risk losing their independence or should they fight the Franks? The actions they took reveal their priorities. This climate of suspicion clouding relations between sultanate and the Syrian Turks also goes a long way to explaining firstly why the powerful coalition forces raised between 1110 and 1115 achieved so little, often being hampered or ignored by the very frontier commanders who could have increased their chances of victory. For the Franks of course, this situation was highly desirable, entangling their foes in mutual distrust whilst enabling them to pursue their own ambitions. In the wake of the 1115 campaign, relations between the Franks and Tughtakin soon fell apart once again with a Frankish assault on the frontier town of Rafaniyya.146 Tughtakin also seems to have been worried by his very overt defiance of the sultan and so in 1116 he managed to rebuild relations by travelling to

140  IAA(C), vol. 1, 166–8.    141  IAA(C), vol. 1,167. 142  IAA(C), vol. 1,167.    143 UIM, 88.   144  IAA(C), vol. 1, 172. 145 AA, 856.   146  IAA(C), vol. 1, 173–4.

78  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Baghdad.147 Nevertheless, Sultan Mohammed was not able to stage any further campaigns in Syria. Both he and the caliph died in 1118, setting in motion a new round of infighting in Iraq and Persia which effectively prevented any major reengagement to the north. As will now be shown, the much reduced threat from the sultanate, mixed with the anxious and divided nature of Turkish authority across Syria and the Jazira enabled the Franks to contemplate major advances over the next decade.

The Armenian Lords The question of defining the nature of Frankish relations with the Armenian ­peoples of southern Anatolia and Cilica is a thorny issue. In so many ways, the two peoples worked extremely closely with one another and did so from an early stage. They fought alongside one another, they inter-married, and they showed respect—broadly speaking—for one another’s faiths. The Franks, for their part, also relied heavily on Armenian troops, permitted Armenians to acquire knightly status,148 and drew upon their artistic and architectural traditions,149 while those ruling in Armenian territory adopted many local customs and practices. The Armenians, likewise: initially viewed the Franks as their liberators,150 adopted some Frankish cultural and artistic practices,151 patronized military orders (Gregory the Priest described the Templars as ‘Christ-like’),152 protected Frankish fugitives hiding from the Turks,153 rebelled on occasion in favour of the Franks even when the balance of power was shifting towards the Turks,154 and the Armenian Saint, Nerses Snorhali, lamented their defeat in 1187.155 There were even strong signs of rapprochement between the Armenian and Catholic churches as the twelfth century progressed.156 147  IQ, 153. 148 MacEvitt, The Crusades, 90–1. For discussion on the recruitment of Armenian soldiers into Frankish armies see: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 2, paras 23-34 (online edition). 149  See, for example: N. Kenaan-Kedar, ‘Decorative architectural sculpture in crusader Jerusalem: the eastern, western, and Armenian sources of a local visual culture’, The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas, Routledge Worlds (Abingdon, 2016), 609–45. 150 T. Andrews, Mattʿēos Uṙhayecʿi and his Chronicle: History as Apocalypse in a Crossroads of Cultures, The Medieval Mediterranean: Peoples, Economies and Cultures, 400–1500 CVIII (Leiden, 2017), 130. 151 For an example taken from Armenian art (albeit somewhat later) see: H.  C.  Evans (ed.), Armenia: Art, Religion, and Trade in the Middle Ages (New Haven, 2018), 158. 152  Translation: ME, 263. M.-A.  Chevalier, Les orders religieux-militaires en Arménie ciliciennne (Paris, 2009), passim. 153  See, for example: FC, 683. 154  For example the 1146 rebellion in Edessa: IAA(C), vol. 2, 8. 155  T. M. Van Lint (trans.), ‘Lament on Edessa by Nersēs Šnorhali’, East and West in the Crusader States: Contexts, Contacts and Confrontations II, ed. K. Ciggaar and H. Teule (Leuven, 1999), 49–105. See also: T. Boyadjian, The City Lament: Jerusalem across the Medieval Mediterranean (Ithaca, 2018), 104–37. 156  For a survey of ecclesiastical relations see: J. Ryan, ‘Toleration denied: Armenia between east and west in the era of the Crusades’, Tolerance and Intolerance: Social Conflict in the Age of the Crusades, ed. M. Gervers and J. Powell (New York, 2001), 55–64.

Friends and Foes  79 There is of course another side to this equation. The Franks drove out many independent Armenian lords, faced Armenian rebellions against their rule, were criticized by Armenian writers for many of their political and military acts and, in their law codes, the Franks assigned to them an unequal status.157 Splicing these factors together, the question of how this relationship should be captioned remains an open question. The argument that the Armenians viewed their Turkish and Frankish masters as equally unappealing and interchangeable, however, does not work; the Armenians showed persistent and marked preference for Frankish control (as and when independence was not an option). The fact that the Franks were fellow Christians represents a fundamental difference in the Armenians’ relations with these two groups and they never showed anything like the kind of support for their Turkish masters that they did for the Franks (even if Armenian authors could both praise and condemn individual Turkish and Frankish leaders). MacEvitt employs the holistic label ‘rough tolerance’ to characterize the Frankish stance towards Eastern Christians as a whole.158 Focusing on their relations with the Armenians at a military level, this label is broadly relevant. The Franks perceived the Armenians as co-religionists, thereby placing them automatically in ‘their camp’. The Armenians seem to have viewed the Franks in the same way and there never seems to have been any shortage of Armenian troops willing to fight for Frankish masters. Having said this, the Franks were not coming to the region to share power and sooner or later they sought to impose direct control. The only significant Armenian polity in southern Anatolia to survive the twelfth century was the emergent kingdom of Cilicia and this was only achieved in the face of sustained Frankish, Turkish, and Byzantine efforts to impose control. This section will explore the military dimensions of this relationship from the First Crusade up until the 1120s. At an inter-cultural level, Frankish perceptions of the Armenians and their warcraft are surprising vague. Despite the existence of tens of reports of Frankish and Armenian soldiers fighting side-by-side, the surviving sources contain very little information about the tactical roles assumed by Armenian fighters. Historians have often drawn attention to the Armenians’ considerable abilities as archers.159 This is certainly reflected in Arabic sources and Usama ibn Munqidh describes them as the ‘finest archers’.160 The Fatimids are known to have recruited

157  For discussion on Frankish perceptions of the Armenians, in comparison with their views on other non-Frankish groups see: A.  Murray, ‘Franks and indigenous communities in Palestine and Syria (1099–1187): a hierarchical model of social interaction in the principalities of Outremer’, East Meets West in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times: Transcultural Experiences in the Premodern World, ed. A. Classen (Berlin, 2013), 291–309. 158 MacEvitt, The Crusades, passim. 159 J. France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades: 1000–1300 (Ithaca, NY, 1999), 69. 160  Translation: UIM, 119.

80  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Armenian archers on a large scale.161 Strangely the Franks, however, have little to say on this point. Albert of Aachen speaks of Karbugha’s attack on Edessa in May 1098 being resisted by the ‘bows of the Armenians and the lances of the Gauls’,162 but later authors offer no further insights. Likewise, there is little to be learned from either Frankish or Armenian ­chronicles about the structure of Armenian forces. Byzantine authors describe them as well suited to serve as heavy infantry163 while Armenian and Frankish authors divide Armenian forces into cavalry and infantry contingents, but they make little further comment about their abilities or preferred tactical roles.164 One possible explanation is that the Armenians fought in a manner very similar to the Franks who also relied on heavy infantry (including lots of archers) as well as cavalry formations and therefore they did not receive the same level of attention as—say—the Turks, whose approach to warfare was so distinctive and therefore widely commented upon. With regard to Frankish attitudes towards the Armenians’ martial character (competence, morale, ability, motivation, etc.) the surviving sources contain only a few rather contradictory clues. Some sources offer negative judgements. Albert of Aachen described the Armenian levies fighting at the siege of Samosata (1098) as ‘effeminate’ and lacklustre,165 while the Tractatus de locis et statu sancta terre ierosolimitane describes Armenian warriors as ‘in some respects trained in arms’.166 Later sources return similarly lukewarm verdicts. Marco Polo observed that they used to be brave but have become cowardly and they drink too much.167 The Templar master James of Molay deemed them too ready to flee in the face of determined resistance.168 Positive verdicts are harder to find. Matthew of Edessa claims that Roger of Salerno had a deep liking for his Armenian troops169 and William of Tyre attaches considerable importance to the arrival of an Armenian siege engineer at the siege of Tyre, but there is little more.170 Having said this, it 161 For the Fatimid recruitment of Armenian soldiers see: P.  Charanis, The Armenians in the Byzantine Empire (Lisbon, 1963); Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians, passim; W. Treadgold, Byzantium and its Army: 284–1081 (Stanford, 1995). 162  Translation: AA, 265. 163 ‘The Praecepta militaria of the Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas (963–969)’, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth: Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Washington DC, 2008), 13; ‘The Taktika of Nikephoros Ouranos’, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth: Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Washington DC, 2008), 89; E. McGeer, ‘The legal decree of Nikephoros II Phokas concerning Armenian Stratiotai’, Peace and War in Byzantium, ed. T. Miller and J. Nesbitt (Washington DC, 1995), 123–37. For a collection of images of Armenian soldiers from contemporary sources see: Nicolle, Arms and Armour: Islam, Eastern Europe and Asia, 373–7. 164  For example: AA, 172.    165  Translation and Latin original: AA, 172–3. 166  Latin text: Kedar, The Tractatus de locis, 124. 167  Marco Polo, The Description of the World, trans. S. Kinoshita (Indianapolis, 2016), 15–16. 168  ‘Consilium magistri Templi datum Clementi V super negotio Terre Sancte et super unione Templariorum et Hospitalariorum’, Vitae Paparum Avenionensium, G. Mollat, vol. 3 (Paris, 1921), 146. 169  ME, 223. 170 WT, 598. For discussion see: N.  Prouteau, ‘ “Beneath the battle”?: miners and engineers as ­“mercenaries” in the Holy Land (XII–XIII siècles)’, Mercenaries and Paid Men: the Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. J. France, History of Warfare XLVII (Leiden, 2008), 106–9.

Friends and Foes  81 seems likely that the consensus of the surviving sources where they express an explicit verdict on this point is rather too negative when captioning broader Frankish attitudes. The fact that the Franks relied so heavily on Armenian troops, particularly in the north, along with the fact that both the Fatimids and the Byzantines drew heavily on Armenian troops, suggests that they were widely regarded as competent soldiers. Likewise, in the Chronicle of Ernoul the author expresses outrage at the failure of a scheme to settle large numbers of Armenian warriors in the kingdom of Jerusalem in the mid 1160s. Edbury has plausibly suggested that this event may actually be fictional, representing instead a strategic commentary on the needs of the Frankish kingdom, but—fictional or not—it demonstrates the author’s respect for Armenian soldiery.171 The main datum-point for Frankish/Armenian relations is naturally the First Crusade. In previous years there had been plenty of contact between these two peoples, primarily through Frankish and Norman mercenaries in Greek employ. The First Crusade, however, fundamentally reset relations and the advent of the pilgrim armies heralded a series of Armenian/Eastern Christian rebellions across Southern Anatolia and northern Syria. Reports of rebellion, the flight of Turkish garrisons, or the voluntary admission of Frankish forces into their settlements are reported at: Coxon (Göksun), Plastencia (Elbistan), the Rugia valley and its main town of Rusa, Marash, settlements around Baghras, the Cilician towns of Tarsus, Mamistra and Adana, the region around Kopitar in the Taurus Mountains, Tell Bashir, Ravendel and surrounding settlements, Edessa, Artah, Harim, the region of al-Wadi (‫)الوادى‬, Imm and Inab and arguably Antioch itself.172 Relations at this early point were largely positive. Some Frankish sources ­complain about profiteering Armenian merchants173 and it is clear that in Cilicia Tancred subdued many settlements by force.174 There were, however, many reports of strong reciprocal bonds being formed during these months and supplies being despatched by Eastern Christian groups, including monks in the Black Mountains, to support the Franks; for some the Frankish onset represented the fulfilment of prophecy.175 Frankish relations with those local Armenian and Eastern Christian rulers, who still maintained some power, or who seized power via the First Crusade, were rather more mixed; not least because their relationships with one another 171  Chronique d’Ernoul, 28–30. P.  Edbury, ‘Thoros of Armenia and the kingdom of Jerusalem’, Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations, Essays in Honour of John France, ed. S. John and N. Morton, Crusades—Subsidia VII (Farnham, 2014), 185–6. 172 Coxon: GF, 26; Plastencia: OV, 5, 66: for the identification of this location see: France, Victory in the East, 191; the Rugia valley and Rusa: GF, 26–7, OV, vol. 5, 68; Marash: GF, 27; Baghras region: KAD, 578. For discussion on the Cilician campaign see: Edgington, Baldwin I, 24–32; the Kopitar region: ME, 166; Tell Bashir and Ravendel: AA, 164; Artah: AA, 182–4; Harim and al-Wadi: KAD, 579; Imm and Inab: KAD, 582. 173  GF, 33.   174  AA, 180. 175  ME, 167. For discussion on this theme see: Andrews, Mattʿēos Uṙhayecʿi and his Chronicle, passim.

82  The Crusader States and their Neighbours were complex and, at times, hostile. The resulting accommodation between the incoming Franks and Eastern Christian leaders was messy and it is worth recalling what is known of these relationships in the first decades of the Frankish settlement. Examples include the following: In the north, the city of Melitene was under the command of a Armenian governor named Gabriel, who had formerly ruled the city as lieutenant to Philaretus, the famous Byzantine commander and rebel.176 Gabriel’s authority survived the wider collapse of Greek power in Anatolia because he sent his wife to Baghdad offering his formal submission.177 His authority was later confirmed by the Turkish ruler Buzan, but soon afterwards his city was besieged by Qilij Arslan, the Anatolian Seljuk sultan.178 This siege was only lifted by the arrival of the First Crusade at Nicaea.179 Gabriel later tried to strike up an accord with Bohemond of Antioch but, as mentioned above, the Frankish relief army was waylaid by the Danishmendids. On this occasion, the Turkish siege was lifted by the Edessans and Gabriel cemented his alliance with the Frankish state by marrying his daughter Morfia to Baldwin of Bourcq. Even so, Melitene fell to the Turks soon afterwards in 1102 and Gabriel was killed in the fighting.180 At a major crossing of the Euphrates, the town of al-Bira was under the control of the Armenian leader Ablgharib. It isn’t clear when he took power. Al-Bira had been conquered by Tutush in 1079–80 and at some point—possibly during the First Crusade—had been retaken by the Armenians. In 1110 he is reported as supporting Baldwin I of Jerusalem against Mawdud of Mosul.181 Al-Bira was subsequently attacked by Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi in 1114 and in 1117–18 the Edessans besieged and conquered the town. Matthew of Edessa explains this attack as straightforward Frankish greed. It is unknown if there was a deeper reason. After a long siege Ablgharib was persuaded to surrender. In these negotiations he agreed to marry his daughter to Galeran of Le Puiset, who would ‘receive’ al-Bira from his new father-in-law as her dowry.182 Ablgharib then departed for Anavarza.183 The nearby towns of Tell Bashir and Ravendel were in Turkish hands when the First Crusade arrived, but their garrisons needed little persuasion to withdraw. The Armenian populace in Tell Bashir handed themselves over to Baldwin of Boulogne and Ravendel was granted to the Armenian leader Bagrat who had joined the Crusade near Nicaea. Bagrat’s tenure over the town, however, was short-lived because two other local Armenian lords named Nicusus and Fer reported to Baldwin that he was planning to betray the Franks; news that led Baldwin to forcibly seize control himself. It is impossible to know if Bagrat was 176 MS, 615.   177 MS, 616.   178  ASC1, 74; MS, 617; ME, 163–4. 179 Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence, 285. 180  MS, 622; ASC1, 75. N. Hodgson, ‘Conflict and cohabitation: marriage and diplomacy between Latins and Cilician Armenians, c.1097–1253’, The Crusades and the Near East: Cultural Histories, ed. C. Kostick (Abingdon, 2011), 88. 181 ME, 205.   182  ASC1, 86.   183  ME, 215,220.

Friends and Foes  83 actually contemplating rebellion, or whether he was the victim of his Armenian peers’ rumour-mongering;184 either way, Baldwin had clearly found himself at the centre of a web of local rivalries; a Gordian knot he cut by siding with one faction and crushing the other (Bagrat).185 This defeat did not, however, end Bagrat’s career and he later sought to win favour with Bohemond by seizing a beautiful tent that the abovementioned Nicusus wanted to give to Godfrey of Bouillon, offering it to the Normans instead.186 By this stage, he was clearly opposed to Godfrey and his brother Baldwin of Boulogne and they responded to his ire by trying to hunt him down soon afterwards, seizing another of his citadels.187 Again, however, he survived and later joined the Frankish coalition against Mawdud of Mosul in 1111, but was finally defeated by the Edessans in 1117–18.188 Edessa was another city under Christian control when the Crusade arrived. This city had been under Turkish rule for many years but its ruler Tutush (Sultan Malik Shah’s brother) appointed a Greek governor named Toros in c.1094.189 With Tutush’s death in 1095, the city was besieged by a combined force led by the Artuqids and Ridwan of Aleppo, but Toros managed to retain control.190 As is well known, T`oros was subsequently deposed and replaced with Baldwin of Edessa (although the events surrounding this transition of power remain unclear). One of the most significant Armenian leaders in the decades following the First Crusade was Kogh Vasil, ruler of Kesoun and Raban (near Marash).191 Not only was he a major power in his own right, but he was closely tied to many of the other Armenian lords: Ablgharib (al-Bira) was his vassal,192 Bagrat (Ravendel) was his brother.193 Unlike many other Armenian lords, his relations with the Franks began badly and he was forced to submit to their rule at an early stage, quite possibly because of the collapse in relations between Bagrat and Baldwin of Boulogne.194 Shortly afterwards Godfrey of Bouillon seized one of his fortresses, again seemingly due to the hostility of his brother.195 He next appears in Bar Hebraeus’ history in 1100 as the informant who warned the Danishmendids— then besieging Melitene—that Bohemond was marching north to relieve the city. Whether there is any accuracy to this report is unclear, but it stands at odds both with his brother’s earlier attempts to win favour with the Normans and subsequently Kogh Vasil’s considerable efforts to secure Bohemond’s release.196 According to Matthew of Edessa, Kogh Vasil supervised the collection of the ransom, making a sizeable contribution himself. In gratitude, Bohemond later became his adopted son.197

184 MacEvitt, The Crusades, 61; Edgington, Baldwin I, 35.   185  AA, 164–6. 186 AA, 262.   187 AA, 355–7.   188  AA, 816; ME, 220. 189 ME, 161.   190  ME, 161–3; IAA(AST), 280. 191  ASC1, 72. For previous studies on Kogh Vasil see: MacEvitt, The Crusades, 84–7. 192 Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence, 342–3. 193 WT, 348.   194 AA, 256.   195  AA, 356. 196  BH, vol. 1, 237.    197  ME, 192.

84  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 2.7  Armies raised by Armenian rulers (1099–1117) Armenian forces (1099–1120) Kogh Vasil’s defence against a Turkish invasion (1108–9) Kogh Vasil’s reinforcements sent to support Baldwn of Edessa against Tancred (1108) Kogh Vasil’s defence of his lands against Tancred (1112) Ablgharib of al-Bira’s forces in 1117

500 troops (Matthew of Edessa)

ME, 200

800 troops as well as Pechenegs from the Byzantine army (Matthew of Edessa) 1000 cavalry and 2000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir) 5000 troops (Matthew of Edessa)

ME, 201

1000 soldiers (Matthew of Edessa)

ME, 220

IAA(C), vol. 1, 139 ME, 211

The events of 1107 and 1108–9 serve to demonstrate exactly how powerful Kogh Vasil had become. In 1107 he beat off a Turkish army, which apparently numbered 12,000 troops (presumably either Danishmendid or Anatolian Seljuk) and then defeated a further attack by 6000 troops the following year.198 Based on the surviving estimates for his forces it seems he could muster forces numbering in the high hundreds or low thousands (Table 2.7). Despite his early accord with Bohemond, Kogh Vasil’s relations with Tancred were far more antagonistic. In 1108, when Baldwin of Bourcq was released from Turkish captivity only to find that Tancred would not let him resume control of Edessa, Kogh Vasil took the Edessan side in the ensuing conflict.199 Kogh Vasil was also accompanied by a Byzantine contingent drawn from Mamistra (which had been retaken by the Greeks from the Antiochenes only a few months previously).200 In the struggle between Byzantium and Antioch, he had clearly picked the Greek side and this affiliation seems to have steered him to work with the Edessans, who were also hostile to Antioch. In later years Kogh Vasil assisted Edessa raiding Harran in 1109 and he supported the Frankish states against Mawdud of Mosul in 1111.201 Tancred’s enmity, however, does not seem to have abated and in 1112 he launched a devastating assault on Kogh Vasil’s lands, seizing first Raban and then besieging Kesoun. The trigger for this expedition appears to have been Kogh Vasil’s conquest of various Antiochene lands in recent years. The campaign ended in a treaty which returned Raban to Kogh Vasil in exchange for a series of other towns. He died later that year.202 Kogh Vasil was succeeded by his wife and son who attempted to make a treaty with Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi when he invaded the Edessan region in 1114. This naturally jeopardized her family’s longstanding alliance with Edessa and any hope of a rapprochement would have been lost when Aqsunqur defeated a force of 198 ME, 200.   199 ME, 201.   200  AA, 778. 201  ME, 203; AA, 816.    202  ME, 211; MS, 629; IQ, 131.

Friends and Foes  85 Franks, seemingly conducting a reconnaissance into the area. Immediately after this, many of the Franks in her employ promptly departed.203 Having now wholly lost Frankish support, the end was swift. The Edessans invaded in 1116 and Vasil’s son was forced to take refuge with some of his Armenian peers. His hopes of ­finding shelter with his own people were swiftly shattered, however, when he discovered that his new protectors did not want to jeopardize their relationship with the Franks. Consequently, he was handed back to the Franks, who tortured him into yielding his entire territory. He was then permitted to take refuge in Cilicia and later in Constantinople.204 The fact that the abovementioned Ablgharib and Bagrat lost their lands almost immediately after this may imply that they were deemed complicit in siding against the Franks in 1114. The other major area of Armenian settlement was the fertile region of Cilicia. In time this would become a major power—the kingdom of Cilician Armenia— receiving an imperial crown from the German Emperor, Henry VI in 1197. During the early years of the twelfth century, however, Cilicia was a warzone fought over by the Antiochene Franks, Byzantine field armies, Armenian warlords, and Turkish invaders. Prior to the First Crusade, it had been under Turkish control, but much of the region was seized by Tancred and Baldwin of Boulogne in 1097. In the autumn of this year, Baldwin departed, later to become ruler of Edessa, while Tancred garrisoned the entire region. Bohemond and later Tancred in 1098 and 1101 respectively led further expeditions into the region to ensure its quiescence, but clearly the imposition of Frankish rule had been sufficiently heavy handed to erode their local support because in 1104 the local Armenians rebelled following the Antiochene–Edessan defeat at Harran.205 A Byzantine army moved in and took control soon afterwards.206 The Antiochene response came in 1106–7 when Tancred led land and naval forces back into Cilicia, retaking various settlements, most importantly Mamistra.207 The Turks also began to make inroads into the region at about the same time. In 1108 the Byzantines retook Mamistra, apparently with Armenian support, but the Franks got it back in 1110, along with much of the Cilician region with the assistance of a Genoese fleet.208 From this point onwards, Cilicia remained in Antiochene hands for many years and the Frankish grip was sufficiently tight for the principality’s control over the region to survive its catastrophic defeat at the Field of Blood in 1119. The future rebellions and political machinations which marked the next phase in its history from c.1126 onwards will be picked up in a subsequent section. The most significant Armenian dynasty in Cilicia was the Roupenids. At the time of the First Crusade the leading member of this dynasty was Constantine. He benefitted considerably from the disruption caused by the Crusade, occupying a broad area across the Taurus mountains to the north of the Cilician plains, and 203  IAA(C), vol. 1, 167.    204 ME, 219–20.   205 RC, 126.   206  AC, 329. 207 AC, 335–6.   208  IQ, 99; Caffaro, ‘Annales Ianuenses’, 15.

86  The Crusader States and their Neighbours he sent aid to the Franks, receiving in return the Frankish title of marquis.209 He died in 1100 and was succeeded by his sons Toros (his heir) and Leon. In its early years this dynasty worked closely with the Franks. Joscelin of Courtenay married Constantine’s daughter Beatrice.210 Constantine’s son Leon seems to have married Baldwin of Bourcq’s sister and his other son Toros was the abovementioned man who handed over Kogh Vasil’s son to the Edessans in 1116.211 In the Treaty of Devol (1108) the Roupenids were described as Frankish vassals.212 The Franks for their part showed little interest in achieving direct control over the Taurus Mountains being more concerned with the coastal farmlands and the major cities. Toros (Constantine’s heir) controlled the northern/north-eastern borders ­facing Turkish territory and he came under increasing pressure from this quarter as the century progressed with major Turkish attacks in 1108, 1110, and possibly 1112–13.213 These incursions may have driven him into a closer alliance with the Franks because in 1111 both Toros and Leon supported Antioch against Mawdud.214 In 1118 Leon helped Roger of Salerno to conquer the town of Azaz (1118), which fell remarkably quickly. Matthew of Edessa reports that a strong reciprocal bond was established between the two leaders at this time.215 Toros also made war on his own account, seizing the important towns of Sis and Anavarza.216 The only slight indicator of disquiet in Frankish–Roupenid relations was the fact that when Ablgharib was cast out of his town of al-Bira he took refuge with Toros.217 Even so, with strong Armenian allies in the Taurus mountains—forming a buffer against the Turks and Byzantines—and the Cilician plains under firm Antiochene control, the Frankish position was exceptionally strong. Other Cilician Armenian dynasts include Oshin who had ruled the fortress of Lambron in western Cilicia since c.1073.218 He subsequently seems to have wrested control over the town of Adana from the Turks and offered considerable support to the First Crusade.219 Adana later came under Frankish rule although it rebelled in 1104 (it is not clear if Oshin was in any way involved). Oshin is later mentioned as an Antiochene ally in the coalition of forces raised against Mawdud of Mosul in 1111.220 209  ME, 166–7; Samuel of Ani, ‘Chronographie de Samuel d’Ani’, RHC ARM., vol. 1 (1869), 448; G.  Dedeyan, ‘The founding and coalescence of the Rubenian principality, 1073–1129’, Armenian Cilicia, ed. R. Hovannisian and S. Payaslian, Historic Armenian Cities and Provinces VII (Costa Mesa, 2008), 85. 210 WT, 635.   211  Hodgson, ‘Conflict and cohabitation’, 90.    212  AC, 392. 213  ME, 200, 206, 212.    214 AA, 816.   215  ME, 222–3. 216 Samuel of Ani, ‘Chronographie de Samuel d’Ani’, 448. R.  W.  Edwards, The Fortifications of Cilician Armenia (Washington DC, 1987), 67. 217  ME, 220. 218 G. Dedeyan, Les Armeniens entre Grecs, Musulmans et Croises: etude sur les pouvoirs Armeniens dans le proche-orient Mediterranean (1068–1150), vol. 1 (Lisbon, 2003), 295 (vol. 2, 660–83) 219  RC, 39–41; ME, 167. 220  AA, 816. Oshin is sometimes identified as Aspietes, the Byzantine governor in Cilicia, appointed at the time of Bohemond’s invasion across the Adriatic. The recent and comprehensive study by Dedeyan however suggests that they were different people: Dedeyan, Les Armeniens entre Grecs, vol. 2, 682. For earlier view see: S. Runciman, A History of the Crusades, vol. 2 (Harmondsworth, 1952), 53–4.

Friends and Foes  87 These are some of the better evidenced Armenian lords who held varying degrees of power in Southern Anatolia and Cilicia during this period. Others include: Constantine of Gargar, Nicusus, and the ruler of Zeugma on the Euphrates. Reviewing their histories from a military perspective, the only clear pattern to emerge during the first decades of the twelfth century is that, sooner or later, they all lost ground either to the Frankish states on their eastern (Edessa) or southern (Antioch) flanks or to the Turks driving down from the north. The Franks evidently had no objection to working with these Armenian lords and were prepared to maintain long-term positive relations. There were also moments when all factions pulled together against a common foe; the most obvious ­example being their unity in the face of Mawdud’s invasion in 1111. Nevertheless, Kogh Vasil’s widow’s attempt to side with Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi in 1114 seems to have been taken very seriously, causing the family’s longstanding Edessan allies to exact swift retribution, both on Kogh Vasil’s descendants and quite possibly their allies. In short, the Franks were only prepared to accept those who showed total loyalty to their cause; playing both sides was not acceptable.

3

Aleppo and Damascus (1117–29) The Challenge of the Big Cities

Aleppo It has rightly been observed that the geopolitics of the Near East during this era was determined by the possession of the region’s major cities.1 The First Crusaders recognized this reality immediately and the Crusade’s major campaigns were mostly fought out during the sieges of Nicaea, Antioch, and Jerusalem. The Crusader States’ later military strategy was likewise governed in large part by long-term attempts to conquer major settlements, including the coastal cities (such as Acre and Tripoli) as well as the main towns in Cilicia. This section deals primarily with the Franks’ attempts to conquer the area’s remaining major cities, considering in particular the challenges posed by these endeavours. By the mid-1110s, and with much of coast in Frankish hands (Tyre and Ascalon being the only exceptions), the Latin East’s rulers began to focus their attention on the major inland cities of Aleppo and Damascus which represented the main bastions of Turkish authority in Syria. As shown above, the ambition to achieve the conquest of both these cities had been circulation for some time, but with the completion of their initial objective—to seize control of the coast—the Franks could now pursue this goal in earnest. At this point, Aleppo was by far the more vulnerable of the two. Ridwan had been a controversial ruler whose primary struggle had been simply to remain in power in the face of multiple perils. Following his death in 1113, the city remained deeply divided among internal factions and governance passed briskly from one ruler to another with no individual or group providing the long-term stability that the city so badly required. By 1117 the citizens were clearly becoming desperate in their search for a capable leader—their most recent governor, Lulu, had just been murdered—and yet there was hardly anyone to whom they could turn

1  J.  France, ‘Crusading warfare and its adaptation to eastern conditions in the Twelfth century’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 15:2 (2008), 54. See also: Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 2; A. Mallett, Popular Muslim Reactions to the Franks in the Levant, 1097–1291 (Farnham, 2014), 13; Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 8; T. Asbridge, ‘How the Crusades could have been won: King Baldwin II of Jerusalem’s campaigns against Aleppo (1124–5) and Damascus (1129)’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 11 (2013), 74. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

Aleppo and Damascus: the Challenge of the Big Cities  89 for help.2 In previous years they had sent deputations to the Seljuk sultan in Iraq to seek aid, but the defiance shown to the sultan’s forces in 1111 and 1115 made this a problematic source of support. Another option was to seek aid from a neighbouring Turkish leader, such as Ilghazi or Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi. The Aleppans do not seem to have viewed this option favourably either and were suspicious of Turkmen leaders who had often preyed upon the city’s farmland.3 When the Aqsunqur offered himself as the city’s ruler and advanced into its hinterland, the current civic leader—the eunuch Yaruqtash—refused and then appealed to Ilghazi (Artuqid) to drive him away.4 Ilghazi, however, did not react immediately so the populace turned to another potential source of aid: Roger of Salerno, ruler of Antioch. Antiochene forces responded briskly, sweeping across the Aleppan countryside compelling Aqsunqur to withdraw and securing a highly desirable treaty with Yaruqtash. This state of affairs did not last for long because, in another coup, Yaruqtash was murdered, and the city handed itself over to the Ilghazi who had finally arrived outside the walls. Ilghazi’s arrival proved equally inconclusive. Some elements in the city resisted his rule and the citadel’s garrison was reluctant to cede control over their charge. Finally, Ilghazi abandoned the city having seized the crucial Euphrates crossing at Balis. Turkmen forces then began to raid Aleppo using Balis as their base. Far from securing Aleppo, these political manoeuvres only worsened the city’s plight and again the Franks were approached for aid and again they invaded and drove back this new Turkish claimant. The Franks then beat off a further attempt by Aqusunqur to seize control.5 By this stage Antioch was steadily acquiring hegemony over the city, which was becoming increasingly dependent on Frankish troops for its own survival. The Franks however were intent on exchanging a position of influence for one of direct control. The events which severed relations occurred in 1118 when Frankish troops attacked a merchant caravan en route from Damascus to Aleppo. The Aleppans protested and on this occasion the Franks were prepared to make reparation. Over the following months, however, the Franks decisively broke their agreement with Aleppo and raided the city’s farmlands and, more seriously, seized the heavily fortified town of Azaz.6 Azaz lies only a short distance to the north of Aleppo and consequently it represented an excellent base from which to apply pressure on the city directly. Shortly after, in 1119, the Edessans, sensing the opportunities opening up to the south, crossed into Aleppan territory and seized the town of Buza only a few miles to the north-east of Aleppo and then began to attack the city itself.7 With these newly acquired advanced positions against

2  KAD, 610–11. 5  KAD, 612–13.

3 Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 101. 4  KAD, 611. 6  KAD, 613–14; ME, 222–3. 7  IAA(C), vol. 1, 203.

90  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Aleppo, the Franks were swiftly achieving a position suitable to erect a permanent and tight blockade. Amidst these reverses, the Aleppans renewed their appeals to Ilghazi who arrived and took power, but soon departed having made heavy territorial concessions so as to establish peace with the Franks. He clearly recognized that he would need more troops to secure the city so he returned to his lands to muster the Turkmen tribes of the Jazira and Diyar Bakr.8 His Turkmen allies proved willing to fight, not least because they had been angered by recent Edessan raids upon their herds.9 Consequently, Ilghazi was able to marshal a very large army and then advance in strength upon the Antiochene frontier. As Table 3.1 demonstrates, the Artuqids were capable of assembling some of the largest armies in this region. Their strength lay not in their possession of major cities—their main towns of Mardin and Mayyafariqin were not especially large and the Artuqids only briefly held control over Aleppo—but rather in their ability to command the loyalties of the many Turkmen tribes who had settled in the northern Jazira region (and the Diyar Bakr in particular). These tribes were numerous and the rulers of Damascus and Aleppo repeatedly called upon the Turkmen in these regions for assistance. The Artuqids could marshal these groups in five-figure numbers and it is notable that authors, who are generally quite conservative when guesstimating army sizes, supply some big numbers when describing Artuqid forces. It is possible therefore that in 1119 Ilghazi’s forces may have been as large as 20–30,000, a figure vastly in excess of anything that the Antiochene Franks could muster. These opening moves led ultimately to the famous battle of the Field of Blood; a Frankish defeat which ended with the death of Roger of Salerno—Antioch’s prince—and the annihilation of his army. This reverse caused a substantial shift in the balance of power and, where Antioch had previously been on the point of blockading Aleppo, now it was the Frankish principality that was in peril. In the weeks that followed, Ilghazi’s forces fanned out across Antiochene territory spreading death and destruction even as far as the Black Mountains.10 Armenian sources speak of huge columns of smoke rising high into the sky as Antioch’s estates burned—although it is striking that there was not so much as a hint of rebellion in Cilicia following the battle despite the fact that Antioch was on its knees, a point which speaks of a strong synergy between the Frankish rulers, their Armenian subjects, and their Roupenid allies.11 Reporting these events, Ibn al-Qalanisi observed that Ilghazi could have—even should have—destroyed Frankish Antioch once and for all. This criticism however

8  KAD, 614–15. 9  ASC1, 87. 10  For discussion see: N. Morton, The Field of Blood: the Battle for Aleppo and the Remaking of the Medieval Middle East (New York, 2018). 11  Samuel of Ani, ‘Chronographie de Samuel d’Ani’, 451.

Aleppo and Damascus: the Challenge of the Big Cities  91 Table 3.1  Armies raised by the Artuqids (1099–1138) Battle of Harran (1104) Against Bursuq of Hamdhan (1115) Battle of the Field of Blood (1119)

Second Battle of Tell Danith (1119) Artuqid invasion of Antioch (1122) Capture of Joscelin of Edessa (1122) Siege of Manbij (1124) Battle with Zangi (1130) Al-Hajib’s attack on Edessa (1133) Battle with Zangi (1129–30) Timurtash of Mardin’s attack on Edessa (1137) Kara Arslan’s march to support Zangi against the Byzantines (1138)

7000 Turkmen (Ibn al-Athir) 10,000 troops—Ilghazi and Tughtakin (Walter the Chancellor) 40,000 troops (Kamal al-Din) 7000 Turks (Bar Hebraeus and Michael the Syrian) 80,000 troops (Matthew of Edessa) 20,000 (Ibn al-Athir) 60,000 (William of Tyre) 5000 Turkish casualties (Matthew of Edessa) 20,000 Turkish troops (Fulcher of Chartres) 10,000 troops—total Artquid force including Damascene reinforcements (Fulcher of Chartres) 4000 cavalry—Balak (Anonymous Syriac Chronicle) 400 cavalry—Balak (Ibn al-Athir) 5000 cavalry and 7000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres) 20,000 soldiers (Ibn al-Athir) 1000 casualties (Michael the Syrian)

IAA(C), vol. 1, 79 WC, 66 KAD, 616 BH, vol. 1, 249; MS, 632. ME, 223 IAA(C), vol. 1, 204 WT, 557 ME, 224 FC, 627 FC, 650 ASC1, 90 IAA(C), vol. 1, 232 FC, 72. IAA(HA), 71 MS, 649

20,000 troops—Artuqid alliance (Ibn al-Athir) 10,000 cavalry

IAA(C), vol. 1, 283 ASC2, 278

50,000 troops

KAD, 678

rather overestimates the strength of his position.12 Ilghazi may have won a battle, but his Turkmen forces were natural raiders and were not necessarily suited or inclined to maintain a lengthy siege against a major city. Perhaps more ­importantly, Aleppo itself was only tentatively under Ilghazi’s control and the population had shown only a grudging willingness to accept him as their ruler. He may well have decided that Antioch itself was not a viable prospect because it would simply burden him with a second large mutinous city whose loyalties would always be questionable. Ilghazi’s recognition of the fragility of his hold over

12  IQ, 161. A similar comment is made by Hamdan al-Atharibi, see: P.M. Cobb, ‘Hamdan al-Atharibi’s History of the Franks revisited, again’, Syria in Crusader Times: Conflict and Co-existence, ed. C. Hillenbrand (Edinburgh, 2020), 3-20.

92  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Aleppo is certainly borne out by his behaviour a few months later when Baldwin II of Jerusalem arrived, defeated the Turkish army, and drove Ilghazi out of Antiochene territory. Ilghazi then returned to Aleppo and seems to have conducted a brutal purge of the city’s elites whilst placing his Frankish prisoners (and apparently their dismembered body parts) on public display, seemingly to impress the populace with his martial credentials and to prevent any rising.13 In 1121 Baldwin, working with the Edessans and now acting ruler for the principality, resumed Antioch’s former aspiration to conquer Aleppo. In the early spring, Joscelin I raided the nearby Turkmen and Bedouin tribes and destroyed Buza.14 Later, Baldwin raided Aleppo’s farmlands while Ilghazi himself faced a rebellion in the city.15 During the summer, Baldwin then struck far to the east of Aleppo demonstrating that there was no longer any part of the city’s hinterland that he could not reach. Ilghazi himself only assisted the Franks’ efforts at this time by setting out with a large army on a disastrous campaign against the Georgians who were pushing into Turkish territory to the north-east. By the autumn of 1122, Ilghazi was ill and he died in November. His sons Timurtash and Shams al-Dawla took control across his lands, but in the years to come it was his cousin Balak who spearheaded the struggle against the Franks. News of Ilghazi’s death provoked the Franks to instigate further raids and Baldwin attacked the crucial crossing of the Euphrates at Balis soon after.16 Had this incursion been successful it would have severed a major line of communication connecting Aleppo to the Turkmen tribes in the Jazira. The fortunes of war swung briefly in favour of the Artuqids in 1123 when Balak managed to capture both Joscelin of Edessa and later Baldwin II. The Franks do not seem to have lost many troops in these encounters but the captivity of Joselin deprived Edessa of its ruler while Baldwin’s incarceration impacted both his own kingdom in the south and Antioch (for which he was acting as de facto ruler). These defeats gave the Aleppans some respite, but with Joscelin’s escape from captivity he simply resumed his campaigning against Aleppo from late 1123, pressing on the city from all sides.17 Balak and Tughtakin attempted to push back against the Franks by besieging Azaz, but the Turks were defeated and driven back. Balak himself was killed in May 1124 whilst besieging Manbij which was in rebellion against his authority. Then in October 1124 and following the release—by treaty—of Baldwin II, a major field-army was assembled composed of Frankish, Arab, and Turkish troops which placed Artquid Aleppo directly under siege.18 The siege lasted for over three months and was conducted with serious intent. The Franks’ great hope lay 13  WC, 105–12; UIM, 132; Morton, ‘Walter the Chancellor on Ilghazi and Tughtakin’, 170–86. 14  IAA(C), vol. 1, 227. 15  KAD, 628; MS, 640. 16  KAD, 634. 17  KAD, 637–8. 18  For other recreations of this siege see: Asbridge, ‘How the Crusades could have been won’, 77–86; Morton, Field of Blood, 140–4.

Aleppo and Damascus: the Challenge of the Big Cities  93 in the support they received from the Banu Uqayl of Qal‘at Ja‘bar (longstanding friends to Aleppo’s Shia community) and the Banu Mazyad from Iraq. Their main ally was Dubays, the head of the Banu Mazyad. Like his family before him, Dubays was an important and respected figure among the Arab communities now under Turkish rule and he had the capacity to assemble large armies on his own account.19 He lacked, however, the strength to unilaterally roll back Turkish authority across the Near East and so he, like his father Sadaqa before him, had hitherto walked a dangerous path, sometimes siding with the Seljuk dynasty, sometimes with their rebels and dissenters (such as Ilghazi). He was not a longstanding friend to the Franks and may have fought against them at the second battle of Tell Danith,20 but in 1124 he had been compelled to flee from Iraq and was looking for a place of safety. The Franks offered him just such a haven, striking up a deal whereby Dubays would support the Franks in their efforts to conquer Aleppo and in return he would become the Franks’ client ruler in the city. Dubays apparently promised them that, as a senior and widely respected Shia leader, Aleppo’s populace would support him against their Turkish masters.21 In the event, they were all disappointed in their ambitions. The Aleppan populace’s will to resist the Franks was hardening and groups who might have been neutral or even favourable to an Antiochene/Mazyadid takeover were in the process of being marginalized or driven out. Only a few months previously Balak had exiled the Nizari community from the city and prior to that many of the city’s Christian churches had been converted into mosques.22 Presumably for such reasons along with a cross fire of abusive exchanges between besieger and ­ besieged during the siege, Dubays’ presence elicited no support from within the city.23 Baldwin was clearly determined to pursue his siege, maintaining his forces outside the wall through the late autumn and into the winter, but he made little headway. Eventually reports arrived that Aqsunqur of Mosul was advancing with a moderate sized army and this persuaded Baldwin to retreat (even though Dubays wanted to fight).24 Aqsunqur then took over control of the city, briefly uniting Mosul and Aleppo. The struggle for Aleppo during these years is a story that has received very little attention from scholars but it requires the closest scrutiny as a case study for the challenges facing the Franks in their efforts to conquer the region’s major cities. Perhaps the most significant and noteworthy conclusion to raise from this conflict is the critical importance of the Aleppan people themselves in determining their own ruler. They proved highly resilient in the face of years of attacks from the Franks and were equally prepared to: bar Ilghazi from taking control 19 Morton, Field of Blood, 137–40. 20  WC, 101. 21  IAA(C), vol. 1, 254; KAD, 645. 22 KAD, 638–40. For discussion see: R.  Burns, Aleppo: a History, Cities of the Ancient World (Abingdon, 2017), 140. 23  KAD, 647. 24  ASC1, 96.

94  The Crusader States and their Neighbours (1117), then accept him (1119), and then try to throw him out again (1121). They proved equally contentious in their treatment of other rulers, rebelling at times against Ridwan, rejecting Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi on two occasions and then accepting him in 1125. Later, in 1127, they besieged the Turkish ruler Khutlugh the city’s citadel.25 Both Ilghazi and the Franks recognized that the populace’s support—or at least their forcible subjugation—was a vital prerequisite if the city were ever to be permanently under their control. The point to be made here then is that while John France is undoubtedly right that the struggle for the Near East hinged on the control of major cities, it is essential to recognize, firstly, just how difficult it was to forcibly acquire control of Syria’s major metropolises and, secondly, that the willingness of the urban populace to accept an aspiring conqueror was a consideration of fundamental im­port­ ance. Aleppo’s population was enormous (estimated at 50–80,000 in the thirteenth century).26 For context, Antioch’s army was very small, hardly ever more than about 10,000 troops. Thus, the ambition to conquer Aleppo involved tackling an urban population that vastly outnumbered its antagonist (even at full strength). Once captured it would then have been necessary to hold onto this city with a far smaller garrison and in the face of powerful Turkish neighbours, a daunting task. Ibn al-Athir tells a story which highlights the seriousness of the threat that could be posed by a large and hostile urban populace. The story concerns the Turkish ruler Zangi and his attempt to conquer Damascus in 1139. According to the story, during the siege, an informer told Zangi that he was prepared to open one of the city’s gates and thereby to allow his forces to gain entry. Zangi, however, despite his longstanding desire for the city, refused the offer immediately, noting that if his troops entered the city then they would simply become diffused among its many alleyways and lanes and would then be cut to pieces by the populace.27 In short, he recognized that a major city’s main defence was not its ramparts, but its population. According to contemporary wisdom there were a range of ways by which commanders could win the support or acquiescence of large urban populations. The Byzantine military manuals from the tenth century explore this point by laying out two plausible options. An urban populace could either be courted and won over with mixture of inducements and pressure, or they could be hammered bluntly into submission.28 Both the Turks and the Franks seem to have adopted blended forms of such strategies. Ilghazi’s approach was to offer military protection and lower taxation, whilst brutally and publicly killing anyone who 25  KAD, 656. 26 A.-M. Eddé, La Principauté Ayyoubide d’Alep (579/1183–658/1260) (Stuttgart, 1999), 565. 27  IAA(HA), 104. 28 See: The Sylloge Tacticorum, 32–3, 89–90; The Taktika of Leo VI, 351–81; ‘Anonymous book on Tactics’, Three Byzantine Military Treatises, trans. George  T.  Dennis, Dumbarton Oaks Texts IX (Washingdon DC, 1985), 303.

Aleppo and Damascus: the Challenge of the Big Cities  95 stood in his way. The Franks by contrast wore Aleppo down, year by year, establishing a close blockade, seizing the surrounding towns before moving against the exhausted city to conduct a coup de gras supported by an Arab leader who they hoped would be acceptable to the populace. Clearly these approaches yielded different results but in all cases they required a long-term policy. It took Baldwin II and his allies many years to reach a position suitable to instigate a direct siege. Notably the obstacles Baldwin confronted in his efforts to secure Aleppo were common to many commanders during this period, particularly when faced with determined resistance from a major urban populace. For comparison, when in 1182 Saladin recognized that the people of Mosul would not hand themselves over to his control Ibn Shaddad laid out the sultan’s thinking, writing that Saladin ‘realised that it was a great city against which nothing would be achieved by besieging it in that manner [a one-off assault]. He saw that the way to take it was to take its fortresses and the surrounding territory and to weaken it by the passage of time.’29 The same martial wisdom appears in Western Europe and William of Poitiers observed regarding the conquest of Maine in the 1060s that the best approach was to use ongoing raiding and the conquest of satellite strongholds to induce the urban populations to yield themselves to their conquerors.30 A useful parallel which flags up the problems involved in conquering a major city can be seen in the successful conquest of Tyre, which also took place in 1124. This city was taken following a similar philosophy to the advances on Aleppo. The Franks had worn the city down with a long-term loose blockade, enforced by neighbouring Frankish strongholds and continual raiding. The Franks attempted direct assaults in 1108 and 1112 but both these ventures failed and it was only in 1124 that the city ultimately fell. Reflecting on the siege of Tyre, it is worth considering the differences separating this venture from the siege of Aleppo; why one succeeded and the other failed. To begin –and unlike at Aleppo—the Franks at Tyre were supported by Italian sea-power and were better able to support a total and very long-term blockade on the city. Moreover, Tyre’s population was almost certainly smaller than Aleppo which, as shown above, is a vital consideration. Also, the Franks were able to stage their attacks with greater vigour at Tyre because their Venetian allies supplied both expertise in siegecraft and timber from their ships for siege towers (the local region also supplied good quality timber with pine forests just south of Beirut and the cedars in the mountains).31 Whether Baldwin II in 1124–5 ever aspired to create siege towers at Aleppo is not stated, but certainly none were created and it is notable that the Franks hardly ever used siege towers to support inland sieges. The final difference was naturally

29  Translation: IS, 57–8. 30  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, 60. 31 Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 222.

96  The Crusader States and their Neighbours that at Aleppo, Baldwin was not willing to risk fighting off a relief army, whereas at Tyre, the combined Venetian-Jerusalemite army was fully prepared to do so (even though, in the event, no relief army materialized). The main conclusions to be drawn from these comparisons are firstly to point out the immense difficulty involved in conquering any major city. It was not simply a matter of getting over the walls. Secondly, the population was the crucial factor in this equation and, for any siege of be successful they either needed to be willing (or at least ambivalent) to their besiegers, or so crushed that they would offer no further resistance.32 In the case of both Aleppo and Tyre, the population proved resolute and the Frankish commanders in both cases clearly recognized that only a long-term strategy of blockade and harassment—rather than a single cavalier lunge—harboured any hope of success.

Damascus The importance of these factors re-emerged a few years later when in 1125-1126 Baldwin II opened a new offensive, this time against Damascus. Unlike, Aleppo, Damascus had not been worn down to quite the same degree and the Franks had no fortresses in the city’s vicinity from which to enforce a blockade. The kingdom of Jerusalem had raided the city’s outlying districts on the east bank of the Jordan and across the Hawran in 1121 and 1123, but these were little more than brief forays;33 Frankish raiding parties had not approached the farmlands around Damascus itself since 1118. Moreover, between 1115 and 1125 Tughtakin had repeatedly travelled far to the north, either to buttress ailing Aleppo or to claim the city for himself; acts which demonstrate his confidence that he could afford to be away from Damascus for long periods. These factors would normally have militated strongly against attempting the direct conquest of the city and yet there were specific reasons why Damascus was vulnerable to attack in the late 1120s. Damascus’ lands may have been relatively untouched by raiding, but Tughtakin himself had suffered repeated defeats at the hands of Frankish armies in Northern Syria: in 1124 and again in 1125.34 In late 1125 Jerusalem raided across the Jordan and then in 1126 launched a full-scale invasion. This resulted in yet another major Damascene defeat at Marj al-Suffar.35 In the months that followed, Damascus’ decline began to gather pace. The victorious Jerusalemite army seized several forts and advanced upon Damascus itself. The Tripolitans likewise saw their chance and snatched the town of Rafaniyya

32  For discussion on urban populations and their reactions to Frankish sieges see: Mallett, Popular Muslim Reactions to the Franks, passim. 33  FC, 643–5, 689–90; WT, 571. 34  IQ, 170; ASC1, 97–8. 35  IQ, 175–6; FC, 789–93.

Aleppo and Damascus: the Challenge of the Big Cities  97 from Damascus—a lonstanding goal.36 In May the town of Palmyra rose in rebellion, forcing Tughtakin to intervene and quash the revolt. Worse still, Tughtakin himself was also starting to show signs of the illness that would eventually kill him.37 Damascus itself was beginning to destabilize. The Nizari population had grown in recent years, winning large numbers of converts, even among the urban elite.38 The Nizaris had suffered decades of persecution from the Turks and were willing to seek Frankish support. In November 1126 the Nizaris managed to gain control over the main border fortress facing the Franks at Banyas and, soon afterwards, they made contact with the Franks, seeking assistance and offering to submit to Jerusalemite authority.39 Damascus was also becoming politically isolated. Previously, Aqsunqur alBursuqi, ruler of Mosul and Aleppo had been a staunch ally, but his son Mas‘ud was now in power and he was not favourable towards Damascus. For a brief period there was the prospect of war between them until Mas‘ud’s death in 1127.40 Baldwin II used this opportunity to attack Damascene lands in Transjordan.41 Tughtakin then died in February 1128 and, on hearing this news, the Nizaris in Banyas staged attacks against Damascene holdings in the Biqa, while those in the city simmered on the edge of rebellion.42 The Nizaris then opened negotiations with Baldwin II offering to surrender Damascus to the Franks.43 Baldwin’s hand was only strengthened by the arrival of substantial crusading forces from Western Christendom supplemented with contingents from Edessa, Antioch, and Tripoli. So, knowing Damascus’ enfeeblement,44 he staged one of the largest campaigns (possibly the largest) in the history of the Crusader States.45 According to Ibn al-Athir he managed to muster a force spearheaded by 2000 knights, supported by a huge number of infantry, which marched directly on Damascus.46 On this occasion then, multiple factors aligned in favour of the Franks: they had local support, they had defeated the Damascenes time and again on the battlefield, their enemy’s longstanding leader had just died and his successor was politically isolated (there would be no relief army), while the Franks themselves were supported with major reinforcements. It was only at such moments with the tide running fully in their favour that the Franks could tackle a target of this size. The Franks themselves seem to have felt confident of victory and Usama ibn Munqidh reports that they were already arguing about the properties they would claim once they had taken the city.47 Initially, the campaign went well for the Franks. The Damascene ruler Buri (Tughtakin’s son), aware that there was local support for the Franks, was 36  FC, 793–7. 37  IQ, 178. 38  IQ, 179. 39  ASC1, 99; IQ, 180. 40  IQ, 182. 41  IQ, 182. 42  IQ, 189–90. 43  IAA(C), vol. 1, 277. 44  MS, 645. 45  For a recreation of this siege see: Asbridge, ‘How the Crusades could have been won’, 86–91. 46  IAA(C), vol. 1, 278. 47  UIM, 127.

98  The Crusader States and their Neighbours sufficiently worried about his own people’s loyalties to ban them from sending aid to the Franks.48 Baldwin seems to have been moving as fast as possible to advance the campaign and was prepared to march out even in early winter. The army initially made camp at Banyas, which had been handed over to them by the Nizari refugees fleeing Damascus.49 Their approach and their possession of this im­port­ ant stronghold constituted a major threat for Buri, but fortunately for him the Franks had lost their major advantage by this point. Only a few weeks previously Buri had purged Damascus of its Nizari population, inciting a mob against them under the slogan ‘kill the Batinis [Nizaris]’ and massacring 6000 people.50 As a result of this brutal act, the Franks advanced on Damascus to find themselves deprived of support and confronting a rather more united population. They then suffered defeat when a major foraging party sent into the Hawran region was destroyed and their advance stalled entirely when winter rains rendered the roads impassable (the Old French translator of William of Tyre’s history reports that December was the region’s wettest month).51 It is possible, given the scale of the forces at his command, that Baldwin could have pressed on to Damascus. Nevertheless, without any urban support, there was no prospect of a quick victory and so he called off the advance. The Damascus offensive of 1126–9 is significant, both as another failed attempt by the Crusader States to drive inland, but also because it confirms many of the themes mentioned above. What makes this endeavour so significant is that, unlike Aleppo, the campaign was relatively short term (lasting only a few years, rather than—arguably—over a decade in the case of Aleppo). The crucial difference in this case was that the Franks had significant support within the city. This point once again underlines the importance of a major metropolis’ population in determining the success or failure of an external takeover.

48  MS, 645. 49  IQ, 194. 50  Translation: IAA(C), vol. 1, 278. See also: IQ, 192–4. 51  IQ, 195–9; WT, 620–2; P. Handyside, ‘L’Estoire d’Eracles in Outremer’, The French in Outremer: Communities and Communications in the Crusading Mediterranean, ed. L. Morreale and N. Paul (New York, 2018), 70.

4

The Evolving Balance of Power (1130s–1148) John II Comnenus and the Atabeg Zangi During the period 1130–46 the balance of power shifted dramatically in Northern Syria. Up to early 1125, Frankish military activity had been almost continually front-footed with both Edessa and Antioch concentrating much of their effort against Aleppo, buttressed by substantial Jerusalemite assistance. After the failure of the siege of Aleppo, however, Baldwin II of Jerusalem rapidly revised his priorities, concentrating his efforts on Damascus instead. He had several reasons to switch target to the south. These included: the difficulties he encountered be­sieging Aleppo; the pressure exerted by Jerusalem’s nobility on Baldwin to focus his efforts on Jerusalemite—rather than Antiochene—affairs; and the arrival of Bohemond II in 1126 to assume responsibility for Antioch’s defence. Indeed, Usama ibn Munqidh tellingly reported that Baldwin ordered the fodder for his horses (so as to take the return journey to Jerusalem) on the night of Bohemond’s arrival; clearly he felt an urgent need to return to his own kingdom.1 Without the constant injection of support from Baldwin II, Antioch and Edessa remained on the offensive but could not maintain anything like the same military pressure on their neighbours. Both powers raided their opponents and Bohemond retook Kafartab in 1127. By 1127 Ibn al-Athir reports that the major town of Harran was under Edessan control—a statement which suggests that they had begun to make tribute payments, given that there is no report of a military takeover.2 They also raided Aleppan territory, but any residual ambitions the Northern Franks may have harboured concerning the city’s conquest would have been substantially curtailed by Zangi’s rise to power immediately afterwards.3 Zangi’s accession in Mosul and later Aleppo dramatically changed the balance of power.4 Both Joscelin and Bohemond II were prepared to make a treaty with Zangi soon after his arrival and their later rather more wary conduct implies their recognition that they could not match his military capabilities—derived from possession of both these major cities as well as lands elsewhere—and his military

1  UIM, 133. 2  IAA(HA), 68. 3  WT, 613–14; MS, 643–4; KAD, 656. 4  See: Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 24. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

100  The Crusader States and their Neighbours experience, accrued during the ongoing wars over the sultanate in Iraq.5 Consequently, they focused their energies on other goals and, while the notion of conquering Aleppo re-appeared sporadically in later years; for the time being at least, they shelved the idea.6 Of the two, Joscelin II of Edessa –even if he abandoned the idea of conquering Aleppo—remained aggressive on his frontier facing Zangi and he made several attacks in the region around Zangi’s town of Manbij (which Zangi had conquered back in 1128). He seems to have made some progress on this front and to have aspired to conquer the town outright because a charter dated to c.1134 reveals that by this stage, Edessa had: appointed a Frankish archbishop for the stillunconquered Manbij; acquired several castles in the area; and was sufficiently secure in its position to make concessions in the vicinity of Manbij (Hierapolis) to the monks of the abbey of Jehoshaphat—a non-military religious institution.7 Antioch, for its part, became embroiled in a new war over Cilicia. The origins of this conflict are obscure. For many years much of Cilicia had been firmly under Antiochene control; a situation enabled by the willing support of the Roupenids in the north, whose territories in the Taurus mountains partially buffered Antioch against Danishmendid and Anatolian Seljuk attack. The pressure exerted by the Danishmendid Turks in the Taurus region, however, was rising, particularly following the death of Toros in 1129. The Danishmendids seem to have been angered by the support offered by the Roupenids for a Seljuk pretender called ‘Arab’ who had launched a series of attacks against the Danishmendids only a few years previously.8 This increasing Danishmendid pressure placed both Armenian and Frankish holdings in the region in jeopardy so in 1130 Bohemond led an army into Cilicia.9 His target however was not simply the advancing Turks. He directed his forces instead to Anavaza, the centre-point of Roupenid authority. The implication here is that some disagreement had arisen between him and the Roupenids and this is confirmed by Orderic Vitalis although he does not identify the specific cause.10 The expedition itself was a fiasco and the Danishmendids ambushed and destroyed the Antiochene army. Bohemond was scalped and this grisly trophy along with other Frankish weapons were sent as trophies to the Seljuk Sultan.11 The Armenians themselves remained neutral in this fight but then sprang on the Turkish victors and drove them out of Cilicia.12 Bohemond’s death did not end Roupenid resistance to Antiochene rule in Cilicia and, soon after, the new Roupenid leader Leon I seized their major cities of Mamistra, Tarsus and Adana whilst beating off a relief army.13 There was, however, a pyrrhic quality to the Armenian expulsion of Frankish rule from Cilicia because in 1131 the 5  MS, 651; ME, 238. 6  See, for example: RRR, no. 790. 7  RRR, no. 325. 8 Cahen, Formation of Turkey, 19. 9  ASC1, 99. 10  OV, vol. 6, 134. 11  ASC1, 99. 12  BH, vol. 1, 255. 13  MS, 646; Sempad the Constable, ‘Chronique du Royaume de la Petite Arménie’, RHC ARM, vol. 1 (Paris, 1869), 615; Vahram’s Chronicle of the Armenian Kingdom in Cilicia during the Crusades, trans. C.F. Neumann (London, 1831), 30.

The Evolving Balance of Power  101 Danishmendids invaded once again and forced the Roupenids to submit and pay tribute.14 It is not easy to explain the sudden collapse in Roupenid-Antiochene relations, but it seems likely that Bohemond II may have had some role to play because during his short reign he also managed to alienate Joscelin I of Edessa, after years of mutual support. Michael the Syrian makes the plausible suggestion that this came about because Bohemond had sought to assert Antiochene hegemony over Edessa, to the point of straining relations beyond breaking-point.15 If this is true then it was a deeply unwise move. Edessa was looking very strong at this moment, raiding far and wide, and later Joscelin himself felt able to leave his county entirely to participate in Baldwin II’s attack on Damascus in 1129.16 When threatened by Bohemond II, Joscelin responded by raiding Antiochene territory, allegedly using Turkish troops, and the two leaders were only reconciled by the intervention of King Baldwin and the Antiochene patriarch.17 Their willingness to make peace seems to have been genuine because in the spring of 1128 Joscelin helped broker Bohemond II’s peace treaty with Zangi.18 Quite possibly, Bohemond’s tactlessness towards Joscelin may provide a clue as to the collapse of his relations with the Roupenids. On the Aleppan frontier, once Zangi had taken power, his forces swiftly came into conflict with the Edessan Franks, following the conclusion of the one-year truce they agreed in 1128. In 1130 Sawar (Zangi’s governor in Aleppo) lost a skirmish against Joscelin and soon after Edessan forces raided Zangid territory near the Antiochene border town of Ma‘arrat Mesrin.19 Then in 1133 Sawar attacked Tell Bashir and later won a victory over Edessan forces in 1134 when a Frankish raiding party entered Aleppo’s northern territories.20 In the same year, however, Joscelin allied with King Fulk of Jerusalem and the two Frankish leaders scored a major battlefield victory over Sawar at Qinnisrin, which they followed-up by ­raiding Aleppan territory. Antioch was far less front-footed at this time which is hardly surprising given that it was consumed with political infighting for much of the period between 1130 and 1136. The inter-regnum following Bohemond’s death was disastrous for the principality (his successor, a daughter named Constance was a child). Not only did Antioch lose Cilicia, but the principality was repeatedly attacked by Turkish raiders especially Sawar with incursions in: 1129, 1130, 1131 and 1134 and 1135.21 Antioch offered little by way of response, with only a single attack in January 1134.22 Antioch’s focus at this time was more on its internal affairs.

14  MS, 647–8. 15  MS, 644. 16  UIM, 127. 17  WT, 615. 20  KAD, 665. 18  ME, 238. 19  KAD, 664. 21  1129: UIM, 127–8; 1130: KAD, 661; 1131: KAD, 661; 1134: al-Azimi, ‘La chronique abrégée d’al‘Aẓîmî années 518–538/1124–1144’, trans. F.  Monot, Revue des études islamiques, 59 (1991), 133–4; 1135: KAD, 671. 22  KAD, 665.

102  The Crusader States and their Neighbours In  the  wake of Bohemond’s II death in 1130 his widow Alice is said to have attempted to make contact with Zangi, requesting support.23 Hearing this, Baldwin II hurried north and, with Joscelin of Edessa’s support, he entered Antioch removed Alice (his daughter) from power, installed his own lieutenants, and made the nobility swear to safeguard Alice’s daughter Constance as the legitimate heir.24 In the years that followed there are rumours that Joscelin II (Joscelin I having died in 1131) attempted a takeover in Antioch but was rebuffed.25 Trouble was brewing again in 1132 when Alice claimed power supported by an impressive array of allies including many Antiochene elites along with the counts of both Tripoli and Edessa and later possibly some Jerusalemite exiles.26 Seemingly their collective purpose was to shake-off Jerusalemite hegemony by joining forces.27 The new king of Jerusalem, Fulk of Anjou, responded by marching north and defeating the count of Tripoli in battle. Having scored this victory he could then re-wire the region’s politics according to his wishes.28 In 1134 it was necessary for him to intervene again when he worked with Joscelin II of Edessa to defeat Sawar, winning the abovementioned battle at Qinnisrin.29 This conflict with Sawar helped him to reconcile his differences with Joscelin, but in 1135 Alice again managed to resume power and Fulk was not willing to attempt a further northern adeventure.30 The principality then remained reasonable stable—in­tern­ al­ly—until the arrival of its new prince, Raymond of Poitiers who took power in 1136 after marrying Constance.31 During—and possibly because of—these in­tern­al shenanigans, Antioch’s frontiers collapsed.32 In 1135 Zangi’s forces staged a very successful campaign against Antioch. Previously, Sawar had attacked the principality frequently, but he hadn’t taken much land. On this occasion, however, he managed to gain al-Atharib, Zardana, Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man, and Kafartab (most of the large front-line strongholds).33 The Anatolian Seljuks then attacked 23  Asbridge questions whether this event ever took place in this way, suggesting that William’s hostility towards Alice renders his account suspect. As he suggests, perhaps the most likely scenario is that Alice was simply seeking a truce or military alliance with Zangi (not uncommon at all) but that William chose to work up the event into an accusation of treachery. See: T. Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch: a case study of Female power in the Twelfth century’, The Experience of Crusading 2: Defining the Crusader Kingdom, ed. P. Edbury and J. Phillips (Cambridge, 2003), 34–5. 24  WT, 623–5. 25  MS, 649. 26  For these exiles see: A. Murray, ‘Baldwin II and his nobles: baronial factionalism and dissent in the kingdom of Jerusalem, 1118–1134’, Nottingham Medieval Studies, 38 (1994), 82–3. 27  Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch’, 37. 28  WT, 636–8. 29  For discussion on Qinnisrin see section ‘Fighting Pitched Battles’ below. 30  WT, 657–9. A. Murray, ‘Constance, princess of Antioch (1130–64): ancestry, marriages and family’, Anglo-Norman Studies XXXVIII: Proceedings of the Battle Conference 2015 (Woodbridge, 2016), 86. 31  William of Tyre claims that Alice tried to block Raymond’s elevation to power and marriage to Constance but both Asbridge and Murray have cast doubt—albeit to varying degrees—on this narrative seeing it rather as an extension of William of Tyre’s hostility towards Alice: Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch’, 44–5; Murray, ‘Constance’, 86. 32  Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch’, 47. 33  ASC2, 274; MS, 652; KAD, 671; IAA(C), vol. 1, 336. For discussion on the dating of these attacks see: Buck, Principality of Antioch, 25 (esp. ftn 25); El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 67.

The Evolving Balance of Power  103 the following year while the inhabitants of Balatunus rose in rebellion and Sawar staged a long-range incursion into Antioch’s coastlands around its main port of Latakia.34 For this reason, the principality inherited by Constance and Raymond of Poitiers was a much reduced territory. The balance of power had shifted dra­mat­ ic­al­ly over the previous decade. Where in his account of the year 1127 Ibn alAthir described a situation where Muslim elites were fretting about a possible Frankish conquest across the entire Northern Syrian region, by 1136 he described them as ‘weak and impotent’.35 The Franks had lost their supremacy in the north and Zangi was ascendant. Raymond clearly recognized this reality because almost immediately after his arrival in 1136 he launched a new campaign into Cilicia, planning to re-impose Antiochene control. In the previous year there had been fresh clashes between the Armenians and Franks in Cilicia provoked seemingly by the flight of an Armenian nobleman from the Edessan town of Gargar (following a quarrel with Joscelin II).36 Raymond’s incursion seems to have been a response to this new outbreak of violence and he proved highly successful, managing to capture Leon. He later released him in return for: the restoration of Mamistra, Adana, and Savranda, the handing over of his sons as hostages, and a large financial payment.37 Viewed in hindsight, Raymond should probably be credited with stabilizing Antioch’s declining military fortunes. As Phillips observes, during his reign, he proved remarkably ‘self-sufficient’ in maintaining his own borders with very little assistance from the kingdom of Jerusalem.38 Raymond did not have long to enjoy his success in Cilicia because in 1137 the Byzantine Emperor John II Comnenus descended upon Cilicia in person, seemingly having been nettled by Leon’s recent attacks on Byzantine territory. During this campaign, both Antioch and the Roupenids lost control in Cilicia, Leon was captured and imprisoned in Constantinople, while Raymond was besieged in Antioch itself. The threat this posed to the Crusader States was only compounded by problems arising elsewhere in this year, with Tripoli enduring a pair of crippling attacks firstly from Turkmen tribes operating out of Damascus and then from Zangi, while Fulk of Jerusalem suffered a major defeat at Barin, during an attempt to bring aid to Tripoli.39 Eventually, the Franks weathered these assaults. Relief forces compelled Zangi to withdraw from Tripoli, leaving the county’s lands in tatters, so much so that a few years later in 1142 the whole frontier zone in the Homs Gap centred on 34 Seljuk incursion: MS, 655. Rebellion in Balatanus: Ibn al-Furat, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders, vol. 2, 134; Attack on Latakia: IQ, 239; KAD, 672. 35  Translation: IAA(C), vol. 1, 268–9, 327. 36  MS, 655. 37  ASC2, 275; al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 137; Sempad the Constable, ‘Chronique du Royaume de la Petite Arménie’, 616. 38  J. Phillips, Defenders of the Holy Land: Relations between the Latin East and the West, 1119–1187 (Oxford, 1996), 103. 39  This predicament is well explained by Lewis in: The Counts of Tripoli, 138–9.

104  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Krak des Chevaliers was handed over to the Hospitallers, including Rafaniyya and Barin (both now in Turkish hands).40 This marked an early and striking example (although not the first) of a trend that would become familiar in later years—the transfer of contested frontier fortresses to the military orders. Further north in Antioch, Raymond managed to appease John by paying homage. He also agreed in principle to a revised version of the long-ignored agreement, seemingly made between Bohemond I and Alexius I during the First Crusade. This was the deal whereby Antioch would be handed back to the Greeks if Aleppo, Shaizar, Hama, and Homs could be conquered and then given to the Franks by way of exchange.41 Consequently, the following year (1138), a mixed Byzantine and Frankish force duly set out to put this deal into practice by besieging Aleppo along with the other towns. No major target was taken, but Antioch regained some of its border castles. Not surprisingly, Joscelin II and Raymond of Poitiers proved to be unwilling allies; reluctant to assist in a campaign that—if successful—would force the Franks to cede Antioch. Consequently, they enraged John II by occupying their time on campaign idling in their tents.42 John then withdrew having achieved very little. Not surprisingly, both during and after John II’s expedition, Edessa, Antioch, and Cilicia absorbed further Turkish attacks. Zangi and Sawar con­ tinued to raid their Frankish neighbours—retaking much of what John Comnenus had gained—while from the north the Danishmendids and Anatolian Seljuks conquered much of Cilicia from the Byzantines and attacked Antioch’s northern settlements around Marash and Kesoun. The Artuqids attacked Edessa.43 The period immediately following John II’s withdrawal from northern Syria is also characterized by an assertive series of campaigns launched by Zangid forces to the north. The Artuqids, the Kurds, the Armenians, and the Edessan Franks were all on the receiving end of these attacks, from this time onwards. It is not entirely clear why Zangi launched this sweeping northern offensive. It is possible that he was worried by the ongoing wrangling between the Danishmendids and Anatolian Seljuks, concerned that one or other of these powers might achieve supremacy and then seek to extend their frontiers south. It may simply be that Zangi felt he had accrued sufficient power to open a new campaigning frontier, whilst maintaining a steady pressure against both the Franks and Damascus (his other major opponents). An early foray in this offensive began in 1138–9 when he staged a major assault upon the Artuqids and seized much of the Diyar Bakr.44 40 Lewis, The Counts of Tripoli, 143–4. 41  WT, 670–1. For context see: Pryor and Jeffreys, ‘Alexios, Bohemond, and Byzantium’s Euphrates frontier’, 31–86. 42  WT, 675. 43 Sawar’s incursions: al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 144. Danishmendid incursions: MS, 657; ME, ­238–9. The Seljuks had begun attacking Byzantine held Cilicia even before the conclusion of John II’s campaign (ASC2, 276). For their other attacks see: BH, vol. 1, 265. Artuqid attacks: MS, 656; BH, vol. 1, 265. 44  ASC2, 280.

The Evolving Balance of Power  105 Smaller attacks were also made against Edessa and Antioch.45 A second wave of attacks began in 1143–4, when his troops struck percussively against the Artuqids, a major Turkmen leader, and the county of Edessa.46 Zangi was clearly seeking to push deep into Anatolia, even as far as Lake Van and Amid, and by this stage his ambitions were enabled by warfare between the Danishmendids and the Anatolian Seljuks who were playing out another phase in their long-term struggle over Melitene.47 Then in December 1144 Zangi conquered the city of Edessa. This victory has traditionally been viewed as an act of jihad; representing Zangi’s belated commitment to holy war (a cause for which he had shown little enthusiasm in previous years). Given that Zangi was content for jihad poets to celebrate his earlier exploits against the Franks during the 1137 siege of Barin, he would presumably not have objected to this characterization. Even so, the above summary of his military behaviour over the previous five years places the conquest of Edessa in a rather different context; describing instead a broader pattern of northerly expansion in competition with all of southern Anatolia’s major powers. The conquest of Edessa would have given Zangi a strong position from which to exert his influence on the Anatolian Seljuks and Danishmendids and his further advances against the region’s other powers fit this pattern. Joscelin II of Edessa’s actions directly before Zangi’s attack on his city are also highly significant. Earlier that year, Joscelin had sent relief forces to support the Artuqid ruler Daud and his son Kara Arslan while Zangi was conquering much of Artuqid territory. Through this action, Joscelin was essentially signalling his readiness to form a coalition against Zangi. Notably, Kara Arslan took refuge in Edessa and then solicited aid from the Anatolian Seljuks who granted him a force of 20,000 horsemen. With this army he was then able to advance on Zangi, compelling him to withdraw.48 Viewed from this perspective, Zangi’s attack on Edessa looks less like a pious act and more like a pre-emptive strike, seeking to destroy an Edessan-Artquid-Anatolian Seljuk coalition before it could properly form.49 This ­interpretation of Zangi’s objectives is certainly supported by his son Nur al-Din’s conduct during the 1150s, where the struggle over the now-fallen county of Edessa simply became one element within a broader Zangid struggle against both the Artuqids and the Anatolian Seljuks.

45  KAD, 679–80; ASC2, 279. 46  Artuqids: IAA(C), vol. 1, 368–9; Amid: ASC2, 281; Turkmen leader: El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 48; Edessa: KAD, 685. 47  al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 152. 48  MS, 664. 49  MS, 665. See also: BH, vol. 1, 268; Ibn al-Azraq in: C.  Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality in Crusader Times: the Early Artuqid State (Istanbul, 1990), 106–8. El-Azhari considers several potential motives for Zangi’s attack on Edessa including the formation of an Artuqid/Edessan alliance (Zengi and the Muslim Response, 96).

106  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Zangi’s assault on Edessa was an astonishingly bold stroke against a highly powerful Frankish state. Over the previous decade, Zangi had attacked the county on several occasions but rarely secured any substantial advances. Edessa itself remained highly antagonistic in the early 1140s, both toward Zangi and its other neighbours. Even in 1144 the county’s forces had raided as far south as Balis and Raqqa, highly strategic sites for Zangi located along the line of the Euphrates, and Zangi’s own campaign against Edessa only took place when he was informed that the count and his army were absent from the city.50 Its neighbour, the lordship of Marash (dependent on Antioch) was at its greatest territorial extent at this moment under the competent command of Baldwin of Marash.51 In addition, Edessa’s relationship with the Banu Uqayl at Qal‘at Ja‘bar seems to have remained intact. Clearly then, the county of Edessa was by no means in decline at the time of the city’s fall. Between 1120 and 1143, the county had suffered only sporadic attacks and, whilst its frontiers had expanded and contracted at different points, it had lost no major settlements. It had, moreover, maintained its long-range offensive capabilities and remained a substantial threat to its Turkish neighbours. In 1142 Joscelin had even felt sufficiently secure to go to Jerusalem on pilgrimage.52 Zangi’s assault in December 1144 is better characterized as a sudden stroke against a worryingly powerful neighbour on the verge of forming a dangerous coalition, rather than a coup de gras delivered against a weakening Frankish state.

Why did the Franks’ Territorial Expansion Stop? Reviewing the Franks’ military activity during the 1130s and early 1140s, a consistent pattern emerges which holds true for three of the four Crusader states: at some point each of these states abandoned a policy of aggressive expansion. For the kingdom of Jerusalem, the pace of offensive campaigning seems to have been in long-term decline from the 1110s but it was the reign of Fulk and Melisende that saw the most notable drop. Fulk was a capable commander, but he rarely exercised this talent. During his tenure as ruler (1131–43), Jerusalem’s forces only staged eight incursions into non-Frankish territory (an average of 0.66 campaigns per year). In 1134 he marched to defend Antioch, scoring a victory at Qinnisirin (discussed in full in Chapter  6, section ‘Fighting Pitched Battles’). Jerusalem’s forces attacked the Hawran region in 1134,53 raided Banyas in 1138,54 and attacked into Transjordan in 1139.55 He also worked to enforce a blockade upon Ascalon, supporting the construction of siege fortresses, but he made no

50  ASC2, 281; ‘Lament on Edessa by Nersēs Šnorhali’, 65; El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 152. For the geographical range of Edessan raiding at this time see: IAA(HA), 119. 51  Beech, ‘The Crusader lordship of Marash’, 51. 52  MS, 660. 53  IQ, 226. 54  IQ, 253. 55  WT, 681–3.

The Evolving Balance of Power  107 serious attempt upon the city itself. On the defensive, the kingdom of Jerusalem continued to suffer only sporadic incursions in the 1120s and 1130s and it was hardly challenged at all in the 1140s.56 In 1134, the kingdom defeated a Fatimid attack on Jaffa (which took place as part of Hugh of Jaffa’s rebellion); in 1137 Fulk made a disastrous attempt to fend off a major Zangid attack against the county of Tripoli, and at times the Jerusalemite Franks engaged in indecisive skirmishing with the Fatimid’s garrison at Ascalon.57 In 1132 they lost the crucial border fort­ ress of Banyas to the Damascenes58 and, shortly before this, Damascene forces conquered the cave-fortress Shaqif Tirun from a Frankish ally.59 Taken overall, and when compared to his energetic predecessors, Fulk and Melisende’s desultory enthusiasm for expansionist warfare becomes conspicuous. His predecessor Godfrey of Bouillon managed eight offensive incursions in his single year of rule; Baldwin I averaged 2.4 incursions per year; Baldwin II averaged 1.6 incursions per year.60 Fulk and Melisende’s average by contrast was: 0.66. A similar downward trend can be seen with the county of Tripoli. Where Raymond of Toulouse61 averaged 2.1 offensive incursions per year, William of Cerdegne averaged 0.9 per year, and Count Bertrand averaged 1.5 per year, Count Pons only averaged 0.44 campaigns per year (and the vast majority of these were co-operative campaigns in which Tripoli supplied only auxiliary forces).62 Antiochene campaigning also describes similar curve. Bohemond I (1098–1110) averaged four campaigns per year, Tancred averaged 2.7,63 and Roger of Salerno averaged 1.5 campaigns. Bohemond II maintained this front-footed posture sustaining his predecessor’s average of 1.5 campaigns per year but his reign is harder to judge given its brevity and a lack of evidence (although Usama ibn Munqidh offered accorded him the accolade—viewed from a military perspective—of being a ‘devil’ and a ‘great affliction’).64 Under Raymond of Poitiers however the average fell slightly to 1.2. Usable figures for Edessa are far harder to establish because the sources for the Edessan military timeline are so much more patchy than for its neighbours to the south. Having said this, the overall impression given 56  See Table 1.1. Ellenblum also notes this pattern in: Crusader Castles, 160. 57  The Fatimid attack on Jaffa coupled with Hugh of Jaffa’s rebellion has been convincingly dated to the early part of 1134. For discussion see: Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch’, 43. For the continued threat from Ascalon’s raiders see: B. Kedar, ‘A second incarnation in Frankish Jerusalem’, The Experience of Crusading 2: Defining the Crusader Kingdom, ed. P.  Edbury and J.  Phillips (Cambridge, 2003), 83. See also: H. Mayer, ‘Studies in the history of Queen Melisende of Jerusalem’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 26 (1972), 180. 58  WT, 654. 59  IQ, 224. 60  Please note that these figures do not include campaigns fought during interregnums. Also, these figures include every incursion launched from these states during the reigns of these rulers ir­re­spect­ ive of whether he took part personally. 61  Raymond’s campaigning is calculated from the start of the siege of Tripoli. 62  See comments by Lewis on Pons’ military conduct: The Counts of Tripoli, 112. 63  This naturally excludes the period when Antioch was briefly under Bohemond’s rule following his release from captivity. 64  Translations from: UIM, 133.

108  The Crusader States and their Neighbours by Edessan activity is that it remained far more aggressive than its southern neighbours. Thus, during the period between 1110–36, the level of pressure exerted by three of the four Crusader States upon their neighbours dropped (often describing a steady decline and occasionally a sudden drop). This was not because the Crusader States were consolidating their energies into much larger, better resourced offensives. The few campaigns which they did launch in later years (post 1130) tended to be small-scale affairs with only John II Comnenus’ intervention into Northern Syria and the Second Crusade adding serious muscle to the Crusader States’ activities. Nor in most cases were they being pushed onto the defensive by the sheer weight of enemy incursions. Damascus and the Fatimids rarely attacked Frankish territory after c.1130 and, while Sawar (Zangi’s lieutenant in Aleppo) frequently raided Antiochene lands, Zangi himself rarely took part in such offensives. A more plausible explanation, which partially explains this process, is that it was during this period that veterans of the First Crusade and the early settlement of the Crusader States were handing power over to new rulers who had not ex­peri­enced the perils of the Crusader States’ early years. Notably, the passing of Baldwin II in 1131 in Jerusalem (First Crusader), William of Cerdegne in 1109 in Tripoli (who arrived soon after the First Crusade),65 Roger of Salerno in Antioch (First Crusader or early settler66), Joscelin I in Edessa (1101 Crusader),67 marked the end of this generation of rulers. Of their successors: most showed at least some inclination to maintain their territory’s forward momentum, but often at a much slower pace.68 Fulk and Melisende’s reign in Jerusalem and Pons’ rule in Tripoli show perhaps the most marked decline. In Antioch, the decline is perceptible, but less dramatic, presumably because the principality under Bohemond II and Raymond of Poitiers was so embattled during the 1130s and 1140s. In this way, it seems plausible to hypothesize that the advent of new rulers who had not spent their formative years in the expand-or-die environment of the early Frankish settlement did not necessarily feel the same deep-seated commitment to

65 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 29. 66  Little is known about when Roger arrived in the east. He may have accompanied his father Richard on the First Crusade or he may have arrived later. In either case, by the time that he became prince after Tancred’s death in 1112, he had evidently built up enough of a reputation for himself as a warrior—presumably in the east rather than elsewhere—to be Tancred’s chosen successor (ME, 212) and he was in position to take over power immediately, rather than being called from Western Christendom. 67  OV, 5, 324. 68  Lewis (drawing to some extent on Richard) has suggested that the county of Tripoli may have been suffering from a shortage of soldiers post 1109, but this doesn’t seem likely given that the county now had the city of Tripoli’s considerable resources with which to purchase troops. If anything, the county almost certainly had more resources post-1109 than before (Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 58). Buck has similarly noted a shift in behaviour among this ‘second generation’ of rulers, noting the impact of these new rulers on the region’s diplomacy (Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 218–19).

The Evolving Balance of Power  109 a policy of vigorous aggression. Even those who were more committed to aggressive warfare tended to despatch incursions less frequently than their predecessors. In any event, the shift in energy from a First/1101 Crusade veteran as ruler to a non-veteran is palpable in the kingdom of Jerusalem with the advent of Fulk of Anjou, calling to mind Orderic Vitalis’ words: ‘as a new ruler he banished from his counsels the leading magnates who from the first had fought resolutely against the Turks and helped Godfrey and the two Baldwins to bring towns and fortresses under their rule, and replaced them with Angevin strangers and other raw newcomers’.69 It is likewise notable that the author of the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena, writing during Baldwin III’s reign, within his brief recapitulation of the reigns of former monarchs, celebrated Godfrey and Baldwin for their military victories, but did not do so for Baldwin II or Fulk. Gerish plausibly suggests that this reflects a ‘lapse in prowess’.70 Another imperative that can explain this decline—and should perhaps be blended with the first—is that the incentives for staging incursions were much reduced. The epic conflict for Aleppo during the 1120s came to nothing and the city became unassailable for the Franks as soon as Zangi took control. With Zangi in power, nothing could be achieved here without massive support. Of course the arrival of John II Comnenus in 1137 supplied forces on this scale, but Byzantine support was not quite the same thing and Roger of Salerno played a lacklustre part in the brief push made by John II towards Aleppo—as shown above, he had little incentive to offer active assistance. If Aleppo was no longer a viable target then there was little left for Antioch to achieve on its eastern frontier. It could haggle over frontier forts, but the notion of any major long-term gain was out of the question (at least while Zangi lived).71 It is equally possible that, aware both of Zangi’s considerable striking power and his consistent pre-occupation with affairs further east, the principality of Antioch may not have wanted to give Zangi a reason to re-evaluate his priorities and discover an appetite for attacking Frankish territory; better to leave him alone. Further south, the incentives were also much reduced but for different reasons. The great fear in Damascus was that Zangi would move to take control. This ­danger was sufficient to drive the Damascenes into a series of alliances with the kingdom of Jerusalem. The co-operation between these two territories was not 69  Translation: OV, 6, 391. Mayer has discussed this passage with other issues in mind—Fulk’s relationship with the kingdom’s aristocracy—but he noted that it was written by Orderic soon after the event: H. Mayer, ‘Angevins versus Normans: the new men of King Fulk of Jerusalem’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, CXXXIII: 1 (1989), 3. 70  D.  Gerish, ‘Remembering kings in Jerusalem: the Historia Nicaena vel Antiochena and royal identity around the time of the Second Crusade’, The Second Crusade: Holy War on the Periphery of Latin Christendom, ed. J. Roche and J. Møller-Jensen, Outremer: Studies in the Crusades and the Latin East II (Turnhout, 2015), 83. 71  For further discussion on the significance and military implications of Zangi’s rise to power see: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 5, para.27 (online edition).

110  The Crusader States and their Neighbours consistent, as evidenced by Fulk’s occasional attacks upon its lands, but both ­parties acknowledged the underlying principle that neither wanted to see a Zengid takeover. Again, the need to maintain Damascus as a bulwark against Zangi would have militated against any continuation of Baldwin II’s attempt to secure control over the city of Damascus itself. Only on the Fatimid frontier were there strong incentives for sustained aggressive campaigning. The Fatimid regime was frequently caught up in internal disputes and Fulk had the time and resources to stage new offensives. Still, he did not manifest the bullishness of his predecessors and notably the Fatimids themselves seem to have made overtures to Fulk and Melisende at the time of their cor­on­ ation, seeking a rapprochement.72 Instead they concentrated on enforcing the Ascalon blockade, initiating the construction of Bethgibelin in 113473 as well as two further fortresses at Ibelin (1141) and at Tall as-Safi/Blanchegarde (1142),74 thereby curbing its garrison’s freedom of movement, but they attempted nothing against the city itself. This was not a new initiative and simply extended Baldwin II’s efforts in 1126 and 1128 to increase Frankish pressure on the city.75 Perhaps also, rulers such as Fulk and Melisende, Pons, and Raymond of Poitiers were aware that their territories, whilst small, were still only sparsely populated. It is speculation, but they may have felt it necessary to colonize the wildernesses within their borders, giving their states a resource-base from which to contemplate future ventures. Sinibaldi has drawn attention, for example, to Fulk’s involvement in strengthening the Frankish position in Transjordan, particularly in his construction of Kerak castle (1142).76 Sinibaldi also concurs with Prawer’s verdict that Fulk and Melisende’s reign should be viewed as a time when the kingdom was seeking to consolidate its position and strengthen its borders.77 Whatever their real motives, the expansion of the Crusader States was put on hold during the 1130s and for much of the 1140s. Some historians, engaged in wishful thinking, may like to suggest that this period of reduced offensive activity represents what the Crusader States could have been; a more harmonious society where the peoples of the Near East could establish a permanent modus vivendi. This is definitely not the case. The relative quiescence of the Frankish armies owes far more to balance-of-power equations and it simply was not in anyone’s interests either to provoke Zangi into a head-on conflict or to weaken Damascus so as to enable a Zangid takeover. Byzantium and the Anatolian Turks were watching Cilicia, so any Antiochene attempt to seize the area was problematic—as Bohemond II found to his cost when he was killed 72 Brett, The Fatimid Empire, 264. 73  WT, 659–60; Barber, Crusader States, 162. 74 Pringle, Secular Buildings, 93. 75 See: RRR, nos 233, 234, 256. 76  For discussion on Kerak see: M. Milwright, The Fortress of the Raven: Karak in the Middle Islamic Period (1100–1650), Islamic History and Civilization LXXII (Leiden, 2008), 29. 77  Sinibaldi, ‘Settlement in Crusader Transjordan’, 206; J.  Prawer, Histoire du Royaume Latin de Jerusalem, trans. G. Nahon, vol. 1, Le Monte Byzantin (Paris, 1969), 328.

The Evolving Balance of Power  111 trying to expand his control in 1130. The same was true for the northern marches of Antioch and Edessa. It was bad political weather for campaigning and it is not­ able that as soon as Zangi died and his power structure collapsed, campaigning resumed immediately. A linked issue is the question of whether we can characterize the Near East at the time of the Crusades as the land of ‘perpetual war’.78 Should the fighting be captioned as relentless?79 Should we start considering the applicability of terms such as ‘total war’?80 The answer here again is mixed and there are several factors to consider. During the 1130s and early 40s the Crusader States only rarely staged offensives, but they were frequently attacked in the north. There was never a year when the Frankish armies all remained dormant; their services were almost always required somewhere; and they needed to raise big armies on slender strips of territory so as to compete with the major forces assembled by Zangi and his Turkish peers.81 Having said this, the military pressure was greater in some regions than others, with the overwhelming majority of attacks taking place on Edessan and Antiochene frontiers. Some areas enjoyed periods of peace lasting many decades; Ellenblum has observed that some parts of the kingdom of Jerusalem suffered very little disturbance for much of the mid twelfth century (a period lasting ‘for about fifty years’).82 Tripoli also suffered few attacks in some parts of the mid twelfth century and, as will be shown later, the principality of Antioch was rarely attacked after 1150. Even those attacks which were made against the Frankish States were launched predominantly against frontier castles with very few penetrating to the hinterland beyond. This being said, even when the region’s leaders were not actively fighting, they were still watching each other closely and their armies—even inactive—still weighed heavily in the evolving geopolitics; a lack of violence does not necessarily mean peace. As Edbury as observed, Frankish society in the east was rigged for a ‘continuous state of warfare’.83 Over time, however, warfare was shifting in form from a fluid and chaotic landscape of multiple small states—all at war with one another and each struggling to ward off each other’s attacks—to a more stable situation where larger, better established and more powerful states fought wars over key border

78  For discussion on this term see: Asbridge, The Crusades, 175, 671. 79  For discussion see: France, ‘Crusading warfare’, 56. 80  For discussion on this term see: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 5, 8, 28, 33, 129, and passim. 81 Hamilton, for example, speaks of ‘the almost constant state of war in the Frankish east’: Hamilton, The Leper King and his Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge, 2000), 45. 82 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 151, 155, 159; Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge, 2002), 14–19. 83  P. Edbury, ‘Feudal obligations in the Latin East’, Byzantion: revue international des études byzantines, 47 (1977), 351.

112  The Crusader States and their Neighbours strongholds which could grant a strategic advantage to their possessor, but rarely permitted them to access an enemy’s heartlands.

The Siege of Damascus: 1148 None of the Crusader States made any serious attempt to contest a Turkish centre of power between 1130 and 1146, but the death of Zangi in 1146 and later the arrival of the Second Crusade created new opportunities for the Eastern Franks. The Second Crusade was raised initially to reconquer Edessa, but its objectives evolved swiftly once the crusading armies of France and Germany—what remained of them after a disastrous crossing of Asia Minor—reached the Latin East. Shortly after Louis VII of France’s arrival in Antioch, Roger of Salerno attempted to persuade him to besiege Aleppo, but any prospect of a co-operative venture evaporated when the two leaders began to quarrel.84 Louis was then easily persuaded to travel south to the kingdom of Jerusalem where he joined Conrad III of Germany along with other crusading contingents who had travelled by sea from Western Christendom.85 Conrad himself had attempted to cross Asia Minor, but his army had been defeated by the Turks and so he had been forced to return to Constantinople, later taking ship for the Holy Land. The Crusaders then assembled in council at Palmarea on 24 June 1148. The major question confronting them was whether their combined armies should confirm an existing proposal (made before Louis’ arrival) to attack Damascus or whether they should advance instead against Ascalon. Taking Ascalon would have substantially curtailed the Fatimids’ offensive capabilities against the kingdom whilst granting the Franks a staging post for attacks into Egypt. Damascus, however, would have given Jerusalem uncontested control over a major city, as well as the whole of the Hawran, Biqa, and Transjordan. Additionally, Jerusalem–Damascene relations had nose-dived in recent years, following the marriage alliance made in 1147 between Unur in Damascus and Nur al-Din in Aleppo, and a subsequent Frankish attack on Bosra. Thus, the longstanding Frankish–Damascene entente against Zangi, which had marked their former relations, was over.86 In other words, the kingdom of Jerusalem was once again setting itself the task of conquering a large city—Ascalon or Damascus. In the event they decided upon Damascus (although this target seems to have already been selected by Conrad III and the Eastern Franks at Acre a little time before the council).87

84  WT, 754. 85  WT, 757. 86  IQ, 275; WT, 481; M. Hoch, ‘The choice of Damascus as the objective of the Second Crusade: a re-evaluation’, Autour de la première croisade, ed. M.  Balard, Publications de la Sorbonne: Série Byzantina Sorbonensia XIV (Paris, 1996), 359–69. 87  Mayer, ‘Studies in the history of Queen Melisende’, 127.

The Evolving Balance of Power  113 The ensuing siege of Damascus has attracted a fair amount of attention both from contemporary authors and modern day historians, but even when all these sources are amalgamated—as will now be shown—there is much about the standard narrative for the siege’s conduct and failure that makes little military sense according to conventional wisdom. The basic narrative of the siege runs something like the following: (1) the Crusaders advanced upon Damascus and made good progress through its surrounding orchards. (2) They then fought and won a series of encounters with the city’s garrison/population following which they secured access to the river and set up camp. (3) Turkmen warriors began to arrive in large numbers and hedged the Crusaders into their camp. (4) Shortly after this, the Crusaders contemplated moving their camp to the east of the city, a location which proved to be waterless and heavily fortified—thus unfavourable for making an assault. William of Tyre reports that the army was betrayed by some of its leaders who had been bribed to claim that the city was poorly defended on this quarter and could easily be assaulted. (5) Amidst a background of finger pointing, allegations of bribery, and fears about incoming reinforcements, the Crusaders then retreated.88 Broadly speaking this is the narrative that the sources give us and to varying degrees historians have generally accepted this version of events. They have noticed some problems with this rendition of the siege, primarily questioning why the army considered moving camp to a weaker position.89 In what follows, these problems along with further military issues will be discussed to try and make sense of this expedition. Firstly, and most obviously, it is necessary to ask why the army contemplated moving from a strong besieging location to a weak one. The sources are absolutely correct that the Crusaders’ initial campsite (the Green hippodrome) was an ef­fect­ive location from which to assail the city because several others attackers used – or planned to use- the same site during the twelfth century, notably: Baldwin II (1129) and al-Afdal (1199).90 Moreover, this proposed shift in location cannot be explained by suggesting that the Crusaders lacked knowledge about Damascus’

88  This reconstruction is basically an amalgam of William of Tyre and Ibn al-Qalanisi’s accounts of the siege. WT, 762–7; IQ, 282–7. Note that William of Tyre does not mention relief forces (but this detail is confirmed by Ibn al-Athir: IAA(C), vol. 1, 22) and Ibn al-Qalanisi does not mention the movement of the Crusaders’ camp (but this detail is confirmed by John of Salisbury: The Historia Pontificalis of John of Salisbury, ed. and trans. M. Chibnall, OMT (Oxford, 1956), 57 and ASC2, 299). 89  Historians have previously criticized the Crusade for attacking Damascus in the belief that by doing so the Crusaders jeopardized their relationship with the Damascenes. Nevertheless, it has rightly been pointed out that Damascene–Jerusalem relations had already collapsed the year before. For discussion see: M. Hoch, ‘The price of failure: the Second Crusade as a turning-point in the history of the Latin East’, The Second Crusade: Scope and Consequences, ed. J.  Phillips and M.  Hoch (Manchester, 2001), 182; J.  Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven, 2007), 217–18, 221. 90  1129: This is according to Burns (Damascus, 180), but see also IQ, 196; 1148: IAA(C), vol. 2, 21; 1199: Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 112.

114  The Crusader States and their Neighbours defences. To the new crusader arrivals, Damascus may have been little known, but the Eastern Franks had long familiarity conducting diplomacy with the city and a constant flow of merchants moved between Damascus and the Crusader States’ ports. We know for example that the Franks imported munitions, fruit, and wine from the city,91 while the Damascenes imported flax and linen via the port of Acre.92 Frankish armies had also worked closely with the Damascenes in their efforts to fend off Zangi (especially in 1139) operating in proximity to the city and the kingdom of Jerusalem is said to have had representatives living permanently within the walls.93 It is very notable therefore that the Eastern Franks encouraged this change in camp to take place even though they must surely have known that it would not strengthen the Crusaders’ position. There is no suggestion that they warned against this course of action. The second difficulty concerns the simple notion that a crusading army could aspire to march about 60 km (as the crow flies) into enemy territory devoid of friendly strongholds and take and hold—quickly—one of the region’s largest cities in a single campaign without: any preparatory campaigning, the support of any neighbouring Frankish castles, or any allies among the city’s considerable urban population. Reviewing the Franks’ military conduct over the past halfcentury, they had never conquered a major Muslim city in this way. Antioch (1098), Tripoli (1109), (Tyre 1124); each of these cities required lengthy periods of preparatory campaigning and/or a long-term siege. It took nine months to get into Antioch and many years to get into the other two. Moreover, the failed siege of Aleppo in 1124 only took place following the long-term reduction of the city’s hinterland and the conquest of most of the neighbouring settlements (and even then it failed). Admittedly the Second Crusade’s assault was not wholly without preparation because in 1147 Baldwin III had attacked the Damascene town of Bosra far to the south of the city, but his attack achieved nothing and had no effect in weakening Damascus’ defences. A third difficulty posed by the Franks’ attack on Damascus is the lack of provision they made for winning over, or at least suppressing, Damascus’ large

91  With regard to munitions, most of the references come from the thirteenth century, but notably Ambroise refers to ‘Damascus bows’ (HHW, vol. 1, 36 (line 2209).) See also: John of Joinville, ‘The Life of Saint Louis’, 255; A. A. Al-Khowayter, ‘A critical edition of an unknown source for the life of alMalik al-Zahir Baibars: with introduction, translation, and notes’, Part II London, 1960 (unpublished PhD thesis, SOAS, 1960), 477; al-Umari, Egypt and Syria in the Early Mamluk Period: an Extract from Ibn Faḍl Allāh Al-’Umarī’s Masālik Al-Abṣār Fī Mamālik Al-Amṣār, trans. D.  Richards (Abingdon, 2017), 66–7. For references to fruit see: Burchard of Mount Sion, ‘Descriptio Terrae Sanctae’, 87; plums were apparently particularly noted: Roger of Howden, Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Houedene, ed. W. Stubbs, vol. 3, RS LI (1870), 114. For references to wine see: Arnold of Lübeck, ‘Arnoldi abbatis Lubecensis chronica’, MGH S, ed. G. Pertz, vol. 21 (Hanover, 1869), 239; al-Umari, Egypt and Syria, 65. 92  For linen see: The Assizes of the Lusignan kingdom Cyprus, trans. N. Coureas, Cyprus Research Centre: texts and studies in the history of Cyprus XLII (Nicosia, 2002), 385. For flax see: J.  RileySmith, The Feudal Nobility and the kingdom of Jerusalem, 1174–1277 (London, 1973), 79. 93  KAD, 682; IAA(HA), 189.

The Evolving Balance of Power  115 population. At this point, the city’s population has been estimated at around 40,000 (probably twice as large as the attacking army and many times larger than any garrison they would leave behind)94 and it is well known to have been staunchly Sunni and firmly committed to the Turks (and therefore hostile to the Franks). Winning over a city’s population was just about the only way that a city of this size could be taken swiftly by an army of this size. Notably, the Franks only made their earlier attempts on Aleppo in 1124 and Damascus in 1129 when they had reason to believe that a substantial element of the population would rebel in their favour; the same was not true in 1148. Notably, the only major Muslimpopulated city to fall reasonably quickly to Frankish forces at any point during the twelfth century was Alexandria in 1167 and it is worth observing that on this occasion elements of the population became hostile to their new Turkish overlords and favourable to the Fatimid–Frankish alliance outside the walls (for discussion see section ‘Military Activity 1149–74: the South’ below). The fourth difficulty posed by the Crusaders’ conduct during the Damascus campaign concerns the tactical difficulties involved in besieging an inland city, whilst being harassed by Turkmen light cavalry. As mentioned above, in 1147 the Jerusalemite army advanced on Bosra, hoping to take advantage of a rebellion against the Damascene ruler.95 The result was a fiasco. The marching Crusader column found itself under attack soon after entering Damascene territory. Turkish light-cavalry prevented them from taking a step beyond their own lines, denying them access to water and preventing them from foraging. When the army eventually reached Bosra it could not establish expansive siege works because the Turks continually pressurized their perimeter.96 Ultimately, the army was forced to withdraw without attempting any assault on the walls and narrowly avoided being routed on its return journey. This was a common predicament. When in 1111 Tancred attacked Shaizar he found himself besieged in his own encampment by Turkish cavalry who prevented him from making any aggressive move and sought to deny him access to water.97 In the event it was only by means of three night marches that Tancred managed to escape his Turkish foes and reach Apamea.98 The difficulties Tancred experienced withdrawing from Shaizar might likewise have guided Baldwin II to withdraw from the siege of Aleppo in 1124–5 precisely because he had learned of the imminent arrival of Turkic forces from Mosul and was not prepared to be trapped in his own encampment. The root of this problem lies essentially in a tactical imbalance between the Turkish and Frankish forces. The former depended heavily on light cavalry who were tac­tic­ al­ly flexible and well suited to launching lighting attacks, surrounding their enemy, and conducting quick withdrawals. The same was not true of the Frankish armies. These were slower moving and almost always included a large contingent 94 Burns, Damascus, 194. 95  IQ, 278. 96  WT, 726–30. 97  WC, 69. 98  UIM, 80–1.

116  The Crusader States and their Neighbours of infantry. If they were defeated, particularly in enemy territory, then there was a very good chance that they would suffer near total casualties (particularly among the infantry) in an effort to regain their own borders. Following the battle of Harran (1104), for example, Matthew of Edessa describes how the routed Franks were cut off from their own territory and were slaughtered by the thousand.99 For these reasons, the Eastern Franks were generally skittish about maintaining sieges far from their own frontiers and they hardly ever maintained a siege once news had arrived announcing enemy reinforcements. The 1111 siege of Shaizar is the exception which proves the rule because on this occasion the Franks did attempt to maintain the siege after the arrival of relief forces, but found it impossible even to leave their encampment, let alone to conduct operations against the town’s walls. Returning to 1148, the Franks knew that there were large numbers of Turkmen tribes in the Damascus area (especially the Hawran) who could be called upon for aid. Admittedly, the Franks may have hoped that the Turkmen population in the Damascus area might have been reduced for their offensive, which took place in July, because a significant proportion of Turkmen in the Damascus region annually migrated to the northern Jazira in the late spring;100 still the Turkmen tribes in the Damascene area had launched incursions during the spring/summer previously out of Damascene territory so the Franks would have known that the Damascenes still had access to plenty of support from these tribes which could reach them with only a few days’ notice (which is what happened). On these grounds the 1148 Damascus campaign again makes little sense because the Franks must have known that their forces would be encircled by Turkmen troops almost immediately and penned in their own encampment (which they were). This then returns us to the question of why the siege of Damascus was ever attempted given that the Eastern Franks must have known what would happen if they tried. Finally, there is the issue of relief forces. It was entirely predictable that if the Franks were to assault a major city then they would have to fight off one or more relief armies. Besieged cities nearly always reached out for assistance if it was available. On this occasion, help was indeed available and the Franks were well aware that the city had powerful allies. Only the year before Nur al-Din had marched to support Damascus in the face of the Frankish incursion towards Bosra. On that occasion Nur al-Din’s troops had arrived only a few days after the commencement of hostilities.101 Consequently, they must have known that the Zangids would support Damascus in 1148 and yet, when Sayf al-Din (ruler of Mosul), supported by Nur al-Din, marched to the city’s aid, the Franks simply withdrew.102 There was no suggestion that the Franks would put up a fight, indeed 99  ME, 193. 100  MS, 729. 101  IQ, 277. 102  Forey has played down the advance of Sayf al-Din as a factor which caused the Franks to lift the siege of Damascus, noting the huge distance he and his army would have had to cover to reach Damascus from Mosul (pondering the idea therefore that Ibn al-Athir may have exaggerated in his

The Evolving Balance of Power  117 they departed from Damascus long before Sayf al-Din’s forces could enter striking range.103 How then should we read the Franks’ intentions/objectives given that they were not willing to attempt to confront this relief army? The above discussion has demonstrated that there was something very unusual about the advance on Damascus. It defied the region’s military logic and, when compared to the well-planned 1129 campaign (which was also a failure), it looks decidedly rash. The 1129 campaign anticipated substantial local support; the 1148 campaign did not. The 1129 drew all the Crusader States together into a single allied force; the Second Crusade was staged by the kingdom of Jerusalem alone.104 The 1129 campaign confronted an isolated Damascus which could not expect aid; in 1148 Damascus enjoyed a military alliance with the Zangids. The 1129 campaign took place following a fair amount of preparatory campaigning and Baldwin II had repeatedly beaten the Damascene army in battle; the 1148 campaign was almost without preparatory activity and followed in the wake of a Frankish defeat. In 1129 the Franks may also have had a bigger army because Ibn al-Qalanisi estimates that Baldwin II had 60,000 troops in 1129, but says that the Second Crusade only had 50,000 in 1148.105 Both these estimates are implausibly high, but it is notable that he still presents the former campaign as the more formidable expedition. Moreover, the Franks in previous years had demonstrated repeatedly that they were ill-suited for besieging major inland cities given the Turkish light cavalry’s ability to lock them up in their encampments and destroy them in detail if their army routed on the return journey; yet the Franks walked straight into exactly this kind of scenario in 1148 even though they had experienced much the same kind of failure against a less challenging target only the year before. In light of these difficulties, how should their decision to conduct their campaign in this way be explained? The kingdom of Jerusalem at this time was still very much under the authority of the highly capable Queen Melisende,106 who had been present in the kingdom at the time of the 1129 campaign.107 It is very difficult to believe that she and/or Baldwin III, who had taken part in the failed expedition to Bosra the previous year, would have voluntarily mounted this campaign given that it ignored the hard lessons learned in former expeditions.

report that the Zangids managed to reach Homs so as to threaten the Franks during the siege). Phillips however has argued that it would have been in the Zangids’ interests to be in close proximity to the Frankish border at this time, even before a Frankish attack, given that the Franks were marshalling their armies for an invasion; an interpretation which would make it far more plausible that the Zangid army was at hand: A. Forey, ‘The failure of the siege of Damascus in 1148’, Journal of Medieval History, 10 (1984), 17; Phillips, The Second Crusade, 225–6. 103  IQ, 287; IAA(C), vol. 2, 21–2. 104  For discussion on the absence of the count of Tripoli see: Lewis, The Counts of Tripoli, 150. 105  IQ, 195, 283. 106 Phillips, Second Crusade, 216. 107 For Melisende’s presence in the kingdom at this time see: Phillips, Second Crusade, 217 (­ citing an unpublished paper by Smail).

118  The Crusader States and their Neighbours There is, however, a scenario which could explain the curious behaviour of the Second Crusade in 1148. The crucial factor here is that Baldwin III and the Eastern Franks must have known—probably from the start—that their campaign against Damascus was unlikely to succeed. In previous years they had accrued too much knowledge about (a) the city and its defences, (b) the problems involved in conquering big inland cities (c) the tactical strengths of Turkish cavalry, (d) and the speed with which Turkish reinforcements could arrive, for it them to seriously have thought this attack could have succeeded. It could be objected that Damascus’ defences were not especially formidable—thus rendering the siege more plausible—108 but this point needs to be nuanced with a recognition of the immense challenges facing anyone trying to permanently conquer/rule a large, hostile urban populace located in close proximity to powerful allies and large concentrations of Turkic tribes. As shown above, the city walls were only the beginning of the challenges facing any would-be conqueror. The notion that the Eastern Franks were reluctant participants in this venture is only supported by the rumours that they accepted bribes in order to lift the siege. Given that the siege was impractical anyway, this ‘betrayal’—reported as such in a wide range of sources—looks less like treachery and more like a pragmatic acceptance of military reality.109 The fact that the Templars were singled out as the recipients of such bribes only supports this notion given that other ex­amples can be cited of them being cautious when taking on settlements located far from support—they showed a similar reticence about advancing on Jerusalem during the Third Crusade.110 If the Eastern Franks then did not champion the advance on Damascus, then who did?111 This is a difficult question. Damascus was not the only potential target discussed at Palmarea when the Crusader Commanders and the Eastern Franks considered their objectives. Ascalon was the other alternative and it seems likely that this would have been the preferred target for the Eastern Franks given that it, like Tripoli in 1109 or Tyre in 1124, was hedged about with siege castles and had been under blockade for decades. Ascalon, however, was not selected as the Crusade’s objective and so there must have been strong backing for a campaign against Damascus from a leader(s) with sufficient influence to sway the 108  For discussion on Damascus’ defences see: Phillips, Second Crusade, 225. 109  MS, 674; ASC2, 299; Robert of Torigni, ‘Chronica’, Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, vol. IV¸ ed. R. Howlett, RS (London, 1889), 155. 110  For sources which either accuse the Templars or discuss the possibility of Templar collusion see: John of Salisbury, Historia Pontificalis, 57; ‘Annales Herbipolenses’, MGH S, vol. 16 (Hanover, 1859), 7. For discussion: P. Edbury, ‘Looking back on the Second Crusade: some late Twelfth Century English perspectives’, The Second Crusade and the Cistercians, ed. M. Gervers (New York, 1992), 165. Third Crusade: IP, 305–6. 111  For a historiographical discussion on the reasons for the selection of Damascus as a target see: J. Roche, ‘The Second Crusade: main debates and new horizons’, The Second Crusade: Holy War on the Periphery of Latin Christendom, ed. J. Roche and J. Møller-Jensen, Outremer: Studies in the Crusades and the Latin East II (Turnhout, 2015), 18–19.

The Evolving Balance of Power  119 entire council. The most logical choice here is Conrad III. In his own correspondence he informed Abbot Wibald of Corvey that the Damascus venture had been launched ‘by common counsel’ (communi consilio) but it is possible that, as Ibn al-Qalanisi observes, this decision was only reached after a lot of disputation;112 Ibn al-Athir presents the campaign as Conrad’s initiative.113 Loud has also pointed out that Conrad may have been present—possibly even a participant—in the 1126 campaign against Damascus and so would have had a strong reason to wish its conquest.114 Otto of Freising adds the detail that Conrad had already agreed with the Eastern Franks to attack Damascus in talks held in Acre even before Louis VII’s arrival and the council at Palmarea.115 It might also be pointed out that if Conrad did indeed champion an attack on Damascus, then he would have had a strong reason to retrospectively present the council’s decision as unani­mous—rather than his own responsibility—given the campaign’s ignominious collapse. Ultimately it seems likely that Conrad was behind the decision. If this hypothesis is accepted then the rest of the campaign’s decisions fall into place. The recreation could run as follows: the army was compelled to advance on Damascus by the German Crusaders in defiance of the region’s strategic and t­ actical logic. The Jerusalemites suspected that the campaign would fail and were confirmed in this view soon after they arrived outside the city walls and were hedged in by Turkmen cavalry. News of inbound reinforcements arrived soon after and so they accepted bribes to withdraw the army—thereby deriving at least some benefit from the affair whilst minimizing casualties. They then used the change in encampment idea as a ruse designed to force Conrad and the other leaders to accept the inevitability of failure before the arrival of Zangid reinforcements. An alternative is that the Eastern Franks—rather than being unwilling participants reluctantly driven to march on Damascus by incoming Crusader lords— actually encouraged the attack on Damascus because they wanted it to fail. This kind of argument has been discussed previously and some have suggested that rivalries between Melisende and her son or between individual Crusader commanders and the Eastern Franks may have provided grounds for key leaders to

112  Latin text: Conrad III, ‘Die Urkunden Konrads III und seines Sohnes Heinrich’, MGH: Die Urkunden der Deutschen Könige und Kaiser, ed. F. Hausmann, vol. 9 (Vienna, 1969), no. 197; IQ, 282. Otto of Freising describes events similarly to Conrad, presumably following his lead (Otto of Freising, ‘Gesta Friderici I. Imperatoris’, MGH SRG, ed. G. Waitz, vol. 46 (Hanover and Leipzig, 1912), 89). 113  IAA(C), vol. 2, 21. Barber has recently suggested, discussing other parts of Ibn al-Athir’s testimony, that we should take his recreation of events seriously, despite the fact that he was writing many years later: Barber, Crusader States, 191. The Historia Welforum Weingartensis seems to tend towards this conclusion but the wording is vague. ‘Historia Welforum Weingartensis’, MGH S, ed. L. Weiland, vol. 21 (Hanover, 1869), 468. 114  G. Loud, ‘Some reflections on the failure of the Second Crusade’, Crusades, 4 (2005), 13. 115  Otto of Freising, ‘Gesta Friderici I’, 89. Curiously John of Salisbury reports that the count of Flanders almost persuaded Conrad to return home without fighting a military campaign. This seems unlikely given Conrad’s staunch commitment to the expedition throughout its duration and his subsequent willingness to stage an attack on Ascalon. John of Salisbury, Historia Pontificalis, 56.

120  The Crusader States and their Neighbours sabotage their own Crusade.116 Such views however ring hollow. The key Jerusalemite leaders at this point—Baldwin III and his mother Melisende—may have had a tense relationship but their conduct during their careers reveals them as highly competent and pragmatic rulers. The notion that either of them thought that the Crusade could succeed, but then deliberately sabotaged it for the purposes of short-term political point-scoring simply is not consistent with their behaviour at other times117 and directly contradicts one of the Crusader States’ fundamental and founding tenets: that support from Western Christendom was absolutely essential and therefore that the Eastern Franks’ relationships with Western leaders must be held as sacred at all times. I suggest instead that it was precisely their desire to preserve these relationships that led them in the first place to agree with the bullish Crusaders to ‘have a go’ at attacking Damascus, even though they knew it was a unlikely endeavour, but then when they reached Damascus and realized that there was a real danger of the army being entirely annihilated outside the walls, they devised a means to extract the army from its predicament which, ironically enough, had the effect of enraging their Crusader allies. A further question mark hanging over the Second Crusade concerns its impact on future pilgrims/Crusaders/settlers and their willingness to travel to the east. William of Tyre famously complained that following the siege of Damascus the number of arrivals fell dramatically. Whether this comment should be read as a statement of fact or a piece of rhetoric designed to wring the consciences of Western readers is unclear, although it should be pointed out that he wasn’t present at the time. Certainly, the return of enraged leaders such as Conrad III to their homelands, complaining loudly about the Eastern Franks, would not have done their cause any good, but the long-term impact of such rebukes on traffic to the east is harder to gauge.118 Even if we accept William’s claim that Frankish migration declined following the Crusade it is difficult to be sure that the Second Crusade was the cause given that mainland Europe became consumed in a series of other wars which occupied many warriors who might otherwise have travelled to the east. Moreover, during the 1160s and 1170s, the Crusader States generally enjoyed positive relations with the Anatolian Seljuks who proved willing to permit pilgrims to travel through their lands; thus stabilizing the overland route to the east.119 True, the responses to later papal bulls requesting crusading forces were rather muted,120 but again the reasons for this unresponsiveness remain unclear.121 Notably the military orders remained popular both with the Church and lay 116  Jonathan Phillips explains the various arguments of this kind that have been advanced, but he too doesn’t seem to find many of them especially plausible. Phillips, The Second Crusade, 221–3. 117  Mayer has shown, with regard to Melisende, that she would likely have opposed the campaign: Mayer, ‘Studies in the history of Queen Melisende’, 128. 118  For discussion on attitudes towards crusading post 1148 see: Phillips, Defenders, 104–11. 119  N. Morton, ‘The “land route” to the Holy Land: Latin travellers crossing Asia Minor at the time of the early Crusades (1095–1187)’, article forthcoming. 120 Phillips, Defenders, passim. 121  WT, 768.

The Evolving Balance of Power  121 donors in spite of any post Second Crusade malaise.122 New methodologies—and probably a full length study—are required to assess this question but for our present purposes Tyerman’s observation on this point probably strikes close to the mark. He suggests that by the mid-late twelfth century the Crusader States were becoming perceived in the West as broadly stable territories, much like any other;123 their continued existence—which initially had seemed so uncertain—was increasingly being taken for granted. The initial sense of crisis surrounding the Eastern Franks’ toehold on the Levantine coast was diminishing (despite their repeated appeals soliciting aid). It was probably assumed that they could cope, even if as time would prove—they couldn’t. 122 J.  Rowe, ‘Alexander III and the Jerusalem Crusade: an overview of problems and failures’, Crusaders & Muslims in Twelfth Century Syria, ed. M.  Shatzmiller, the Medieval Mediterranean I (Leiden, 1993), 113; M. Gervers, ‘Pro defensione Terre Sancte: the development and exploitation of the Hospitallers’ landed estate in Essex’, Military Orders: Fighting for the Faith and Caring for the Sick, ed. M. Barber (Aldershot, 1994), 3. 123 C. Tyerman, The World of the Crusades: an Illustrated History (New Haven, 2019), 181.

5

The Rise of Nur al-Din 1149–74 Military Activity 1146–74: the North Zangi’s death (1146) and the fall of Edessa (1144) were two events which fundamentally changed the political configuration of Northern Syria and ­ Southern Anatolia. One of their most important consequences was to draw the Anatolian Turks—both the Anatolian Seljuks and the Danishmendids—far more closely into Syrian and Jaziran politics. Within the context of crusading history, these Anatolian Turkish powers are best known for the opposition they offered to the large crusading armies seeking to traverse Anatolia in 1096, 1101, and 1147–8. They are less well known for their interventions in the politics of the Crusader States, even though both were active on these Frankish states’ frontiers.1 The Anatolian Turks existed in a rather different political context to their Turkic peers in the southern Seljuk sultanate. The Byzantine Empire was naturally a major influence on their policy and even identity and much of their time and resources was spent fighting or conducting diplomacy with the emperors of Constantinople. To the east, there were the Armenians and Georgians along with other Turkic dynasties while the territory under their own jurisdiction was populated largely by Christian communities, including Orthodox and Armenian groups as well as many others. On their southern marches, the Anatolian Seljuks and Danishmendids confronted an assortment of smaller territories including: the Roupenids (Armenians) in the Taurus Mountains, other Armenian lords, Frankish Antioch and Edessa, and the Artuqids further to the east. Despite the presence of many hostile neighbours on their southern flank, the Anatolian Turks’ main pre-occupation was their mutual struggle for control over the city of Melitene. This conflict was of long duration.2 Even at the time of the First Crusade, the Seljuks had been seeking to wrest Melitene from its Greek Christian ruler, but were forced to abandon the attempt when news arrived that the Franks were besieging Nicaea. The Danishmendids later made a failed attempt 1  One of the few works to take an interest in this topic is: S. Mecit, The Rum Seljuqs: Evolution of a Dynasty (Routledge, 2014). 2  Melitene’s centrality and significance for the Anatolian Turks was of long duration and the city appears as a central location in the Turkish warrior epics of later centuries: B.K.  Bayrı, Warriors, Martyrs, and Dervishes: Moving Frontiers, Shifting Identities in the land of Rome (13th–15th Centuries), The Medieval Mediterranean CXIX (Leiden, 2020), 32-33. See also: R.  Humphreys, ‘Adapting to

The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

The Rise of Nur al-Din  123 to seize the city in 1100 but successfully achieved its overthrow in 1101–2.3 The Seljuks under Qilij Arslan I then conquered the city in 1106, during the infighting following the death of Danishmendid (1104),4 but the city fell again to the Danishmendids in 1124.5 The Anatolian Seljuk sultan later sought to retake the city in 1142 and 1144 as part of a far broader series of incursions into Danishmendid territory, during the infighting following the death of the Danishmendid ruler Mohammed in 1142, but he failed on both occasions.6 The Seljuks eventually forced the city to accept their hegemony in 1152,7 but proved unsuccessful once again when they tried to take full control in 1172.8 The Seljuks under Qilij Arslan II finally secured the city in 1177.9 In this way, along their southern borders, Seljuk and Danishmendid relations—hostile or otherwise—with other neighbouring powers seem to have been of secondary importance when set against their protracted duel over this major city. Seemingly for this reason, the Franks and their neighbours suffered only spor­ad­ic raids from the Seljuks, Danishmendids, or still more rarely the Saltukids of Erzurum.10 These attacks include: a combined attack by both powers on Antioch’s northern marches in 1103 which failed due to disagreements among their leaders;11 an attack on Edessa by Qilij Arslan I in 1106, along with further Seljuk incursions in 1107, 1111, and possibly 1119;12 an attack by the Danishmendids—having just secured their victory over the Antiochenes in Cilicia in 1130—on the Edessan stronghold of Cresson in 1131, which they raised on learning of inbound relief forces.13 A further Seljuk raid took place in c.1137 against Kesoun14 and in the following year the Danishmendids also attacked Kesoun with further incursions in 1141 and 1142.15 By return, there are occasional references to Frankish raids launched into Anatolian Turkish territory, staged either out of the county of Edessa or the Antioch. Perhaps most famously, in 1100 Bohemond of Taranto was captured attempting to relieve the Danishmendids’ siege of Melitene. Further raids were launched out of Edessa in 1119 and Antioch in 1136–7.16

Muslim rule: the Syrian Orthodox Community in Twelfth-century Northern Syria and the Jazira’, Syria in Crusader Times: Conflict and Coexistence, ed. C. Hillenbrand (Edinburgh, 2020), 69. 3  MS, 622; ASC1, 75.   4 MS, 624.   5  MS, 641. 6  MS, 660; BH, vol. 1, 268.    7  MS, 689–90. 8 MS, 699.   9  MS, 714. 10  Regarding the Saltukids, they are known to have participated in an attack on Kogh Vasil’s land in 1108. See: Cahen, The Formation of Turkey, 15. 11 IQ, 59.   12  1106: IQ, 73–4; ME, 199; 1107: ME, 200; 1111: MS, 629; 1119: MS, 632. 13  ASC1, 100; WT, 634.    14  MS, 655; BH, vol. 1, 265. 15  1138: MS, 656; 1141: MS, 658; BH, vol. 1, 266; 1142: MS, 658. 16  1119: BH, vol. 1, 249; MS, 632; 1136x1137: al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 138.

124  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Reviewing the above, it can be seen that while there were semi-frequent raids and counter raids between the Anatolian Turks and their Frankish neighbours, these were hardly ever ambitious endeavours and very few resulted in the loss of any fortresses to any faction. Indeed, Edessa and Antioch’s northern frontiers prior to 1149 appear to have been broadly stable. The sources for this area are admittedly often thin and brief, but certainly there are few references to stinging victories or reverses of any kind. From the perspective of the Seljuk sultanate in Persia (the ‘Great Seljuks’), the Anatolian Seljuks represented an important, if generally latent, threat. Given that they were an offshoot of the Seljuk ruling house there was always a danger that they would move south in force and contest rule over the wider Seljuk empire. Fortunately for the Great Seljuks, this threat rarely materialized. The Anatolian Seljuks did make occasional forays to the south and, for example, in 1105 Qilij Arslan seized Mayyafariqin from Duqaq of Damascus and in 1106 he took control of Harran.17 Even so, the only serious effort made by Qilij Arslan I to advance into the Jazira occurred in 1107. This took place shortly after Sultan Mohammed ordered Jawuli to take control of Mosul (see above, section ‘The Turks: Aleppo and Damascus’). The existing ruler of Mosul (Jokermish) was not prepared to yield power to Jawuli and so he called upon Qilij Arslan for support. A conflict then erupted across the Jazira as Qilij Arslan and his allies fought for supremacy against Jawuli (representing Sultan Mohammed’s interests). Qilij Arslan was ul­tim­ate­ly defeated, but the campaign was closely fought and presumably represented a major threat to Sultan Mohammed. In later years, the two rival Seljuk dynasties were generally separated from another by the intervening bulk of Antioch, Edessa, and Artuqid territory. There are occasional reports of the Anatolian Turks meddling in Syrian affairs. As mentioned above, the Seljuks took an interest in supporting the Artquids (and by extension Edessa) in 1144 against Zangi’s incursions into southern Asia Minor.18 Even so, such references are scarce. This modus vivendi began to change during the early 1140s when Zangi began to push so assertively towards the north into Artquid, Armenian, and ultimately Edessan territory. For the first time in decades there was now a serious and credible threat to the Anatolian Seljuks from Turkish Syria. The Anatolian Seljuks recognized this danger because they offered considerable support to the Artuqids to fend off Zangi’s attacks. By 1149, however, the situation had changed dramatically. So far from feeling threatened by the Zangids, the Anatolian Seljuks—now under Sultan Mas‘ud—had strong reasons to seek territorial expansion for themselves along their southern borders. By this stage, Zangi was dead (1146) and his sons were still establishing 17  1105: Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence, 343; IAA(C), vol. 1, 89; 1106: IQ, 73–4. 18  MS, 665; BH, vol. 1, 268.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  125 their authority. The county of Edessa was weakened both by the fall of the city of Edessa in 1144, but also by a failed attempt to restore Frankish rule in 1146.19 The Second Crusade had achieved nothing and Frankish Antioch had just been defeated by Nur al-Din at the battle of Inab (see below). In addition, the lord of Marash (the commander guarding Antioch’s northern march) had recently been killed20 and the Danishmendids were consumed by long-term infighting following the death of their ruler Mohammed in 1142. Better still, the Byzantine border was covered by a peace treaty. With such incentives it is hardly surprising that the Anatolian Seljuks embarked upon a major—in many ways unprecedented—campaign of expansion into Frankish territory in this year. The first assault landed on Antioch’s northern frontier around Marash and Kesoun.21 Sultan Mas‘ud then pushed on into Edessa’s northern marches.22 By 1149 Edessa remained a powerful adversary and notably in 1148 Nur al-Din had still felt it necessary to make a treaty with Joscelin II before staging an attack on Antioch.23 In addition, when the Antiochene lord of Marash was killed in 1149, Joscelin of Edessa seized several towns including Kesoun—revealing thereby that he remained capable of offensive campaigning despite his losses.24 He won a major skirmish against Nur al-Din the following year.25 Despite these more positive indicators, there were also visible cracks in the county’s powerbase, not least the many refugees moving south to Jerusalem to escape the fighting.26 His territories were much reduced and he continued to quarrel with Raymond of Poitiers (prince of Antioch). In the early years of Raymond’s reign, the two men had managed to co-operate with one another, but by 1144 they were at daggers-drawn, the issue seemingly being the perennial question of whether Edessa should accept Antioch as its overlord. Little help would be forthcoming from this quarter.27 In the event it would only be in 1150 that Joscelin set out to request Antiochene aid against his many foes. The fact that he left it so late to heal his rift with Antioch (six years after the fall of Edessa and with the county suffering multiple attacks) is in itself an indicator that Joscelin had long remained confident that he could hold out without assistance.28 Moreover, when he travelled to Antioch in 1150 one Syriac source reports that he was actually seeking to stage a takeover in the principality

19  For accounts of the 1146 rebellion in Edessa see: ASC2, 293–9; W. R. Taylor, ‘A New Syriac fragment dealing with Incidents in the Second Crusade’, The Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 11 (1929–30), 122. 20  WT, 772. 21  The connection between Inab and the assault on Antioch’s northern border is strongly implied in the letter written by Andrew of Montbard to the Templar master: ‘Epistola A Dapiferi Militiae Templi’, Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France, vol. 15 (Paris, 1878), 540–1. 22 ME, 257–8.   23 MS, 677.   24 MS, 682.   25  IAA(HA), 181. 26  Taylor, ‘A New Syriac fragment’, 123.    27 MS, 677.   28  ME, 258.

126  The Crusader States and their Neighbours following the death of Raymond of Poitiers, rather than soliciting assistance (which given their prior enmity is entirely plausible).29 With the Anatolian Turks attacking from the north, Nur al-Din staged his own incursion from the south. During the previous years he had largely been preoccupied with the principality of Antioch but following his victory over the Franks at the battle at Inab in 1149 he could turn his attention to the county of Edessa.30 The near-simultaneous Seljuk/Zangid attacks effectively pincered what remained of the county, and the Anatolian Seljuks, Nur al-Din, and also the Artquids all vied with one another to grab as much Frankish land as possible. William of Tyre, describing the county’s fall, characterized these attacks as millstones crushing the county between them (the Anatolian Seljuks and Nur alDin).31 Joscelin II’s capture in 1150 only accelerated Edessa’s decline. Presumably these Turkish incursions were motivated at least in part by the desire to rid themselves of a powerful Frankish Christian neighbour, but given their longstanding contest over this region, they would have been equally concerned to deny their Turkish peers any opportunity to strengthen their position along this newly emerged Zangid/Seljuk frontier zone. For this reason, several towns were conquered and then re-conquered by different Turkish factions within the space of only a few months—Marash in particular became a major source of contention. Over the next few years, tensions continued to simmer between these Turkish factions over the former Frankish county but during this time, the Anatolian Seljuks were pre-occupied with their wars against: the Roupenids in Cilicia, the Danishmendids of Melitene, and the Byzantine Empire. Nur al-Din likewise focused his attention on the conquest of Damascus, which proved to be a long and involved process (see below, section ‘Military Activity 1149–74: the South). Consequently, it was only in late 1155 —soon after learning of the death of Sultan Mas‘ud (Anatolian Seljuk Sultan)—that Nur al-Din made his next foray against the Seljuks. His objective was the remaining towns of the former county of Edessa along with lands in the vicinity of Marash.32 Qilij Arslan II likewise seems to have been cultivating aspirations towards Nur al-Din’s territory and in 1155 a minbar was created for him describing him in an inscription as the ruler of Syria (among other places)—a direct challenge to his southern neighbour.33 In 1159–60, Nur al-Din staged further attacks seizing large swathes of former Antiochene territory including Marash and Kesoun.34 The next report of conflict occurs in 1173 when Nur al-Din staged another substantial incursion, again retaking several formerly

29  ASC2, 301. 30 For discussion on Yaghra and Inab see: A.  Mallett, ‘The battle of Inab’, Journal of Medieval History, 39:1 (2013), 48–60. 31  WT, 781. 32  IQ, 324; Ibn Shaddad, ‘Izz al-Dīn Ibn Šaddād: description de la Syrie du Nord, trans. A.-E. EddéTerrasse (Damascus, 1984), 68, 278; ME, 271. 33 Mecit, The Rum Seljuqs, 58, 60.    34  ME, 276–7.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  127 Frankish towns including Marash and Kesoun (which must presumably have fallen to the Anatolian Turks during the intervening period). The Anatolian Turks gave way before him and avoided battle.35 The two parties then made peace but it was short-lived because in 1174 the Seljuk ruler Qilij Arslan II took advantage of Nur al-Din’s death to retake the town of Sivas.36 The onset of a protracted conflict between the Zangids and the Anatolian Seljuks represents an important development impacting the balance of power across Northern Syria. The collapse of the county of Edessa had doubtlessly been a major blow for the Franks and yet, viewed from an Antiochene perspective, it brought some relief to the embattled principality. Where, the Anatolian Seljuks and Zangids had previously been separated from one another by the county of Edessa, now they were locked in a conflict fought over the former county’s lands. A new reason had been created for the Zangids to focus their attention on their Turkish rivals, rather than their Frankish opponents. The Seljuk–Zangid war may provide at least part of the reason why the principality of Antioch weathered the years directly following the fall of Edessa reasonably unscathed and the principality’s history during this period will now be reviewed. During the early 1140s, Antioch had been locked in combat with both Zangi and briefly with the Byzantines. In 1142 the principality was compelled to pay homage to Emperor John II during another of his expeditions to Cilicia, but John’s death in 1143 gave the Franks a new impetus to seek control over Byzantine-ruled Cilicia and Nicetas Choniates reports several incursions into the Cilician plains.37 In 1144 the threat posed by the Franks to Byzantine interests was sufficient for the new emperor, Manuel Comnenus, to send a fleet to raid the Antiochene coast.38 By 1145 Raymond was sufficiently worried, presumably both by this Byzantine offensive and the fall of Edessa, to travel in person to Constantinople where he submitted to the emperor (the first time that a prince of Antioch had made such a journey).39 Nevertheless, in 1146, on hearing of Zangi’s death, the Antiochenes resumed the offensive, raiding into Zangid territory.40 When Nur al-Din took power he had reason to view the Antiochenes as a ser­ ious threat and he responded by staging a campaign against them in c.1147, seizing several major frontier strongholds.41 Then, in 1148, Nur al-Din invaded again but on this occasion was seriously defeated at Yaghra. This reverse was brought about by a combined Franks and Nizari force; an unlikely alliance given that over the past decade the Nizaris (Assassins) had been carving out a territory for themselves on/within Antioch’s southern marches. Their co-operation on this occasion seems to have been driven by the common threat posed by Nur al-Din’s military

35  IAA(C), vol. 2, 213; BH, vol. 1, 296; IS, 48.    36  MS, 702; IAA(C), vol. 2, 213. 37 NC, 31.   38 JK, 35.   39  JK, 36; Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 200. 40  BH, vol. 1, 272–3.    41  IAA(C), vol. 2, 15.

128  The Crusader States and their Neighbours exploits coupled with (for the Nizaris) his attempts to suppress Shia practices in Aleppo.42 Nur al-Din is described as swearing revenge for this defeat and he re-invaded the following year and on this occasion he won the abovementioned victory at Inab.43 He followed this victory by raiding across the principality taking multiple towns and bathing symbolically in the Mediterranean; a very visible demonstration that he could cut a path all the way through Frankish territory to the coast.44 He reinforced this point three years later when he attacked the coastal town of Tortosa; an astonishing stroke given that he simply bypassed the Franks’ frontier castles to attack this coastal settlement.45 The town was later passed to the Templars.46 One of the most interesting features of the battle of Inab is that Nur al-Din did not follow up his victory with additional campaigning but instead largely abandoned the Antiochene frontier, focusing instead on his struggle with the Anatolian Seljuks. Antioch lost its northerly march around Marash to the Seljuks soon afterwards but otherwise it was largely left alone. In later years, Nur al-Din raided the principality occasionally, taking the fort of Aflis in 1153.47 He retook Harim from the Franks in 1157 (who seem to have gained control perhaps in 1153), but notably after this victory he then paid the Franks for a peace treaty which would enable him to focus on the Anatolian Seljuks’ advanced positions around Ayn Tab and Kesoun.48 The Seljuks were equally prepared to put aside their conflict with the Franks to focus on Nur al-Din and in the late 1150s they made peace with Antioch and the Armenians to build a coalition against the Zangids.49 Even the reconquest of Nur al-Din’s fortress of Harim by an allied army of Antiochene troops, backed by Jerusalem and crusading forces in early 1158 did not provoke Nur al-Din into retaliation and he only responded several years later in 1162 when he tried unsuccessfully to regain the fortress.50 Nur alDin led another force against Harim in 1164 and on this occasion he scored a major battlefield victory over the allied Antiochene/Armenian relief force. Some idea of the scale of the casualties suffered by the Frankish force in this battle can be seen in the report that the Templars lost sixty of their milites from a force of sixty-seven.51 Again, however, Nur al-Din did not follow up this victory by seeking any permanent territorial conquests (beyond securing Harim itself).52 42 Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 37. 43  Ibn Shaddad, Description de la Syrie du Nord, 35.   44  WT, 771–3. 45  For discussion see: M. Piana, ‘A bulwark never conquered: the fortifications of the Templar citadel of Tortosa on the Syrian coast’, Archaeology and Architecture of the Military Orders, ed. M. Piana and C. Carlsson (Farnham, 2014), 133–71. 46 Lewis, The Counts of Tripoli, 161.   47  IQ, 315. 48  ME, 271; IQ, 327; IAA(C), vol. 2, 79. For wider discussion see: A. Buck, ‘The castle and lordship of Ḥārim and the Frankish-Muslim frontier of northern Syria in the Twelfth Century’, Al-Masāq, 28:2 (2016), 122. 49 ME, 267–9.   50  IAA(C), vol. 2, 134. 51  ‘Epistolarum volumen regis Ludovici VII’, 63. 52  For some of the major accounts see: IAA(C), vol. 2, 146–8; WT, 874–5.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  129 After this battle, neither Nur al-Din nor his successors made any serious attack on Antioch for over twenty years, leaving the principality in relative peace. Nur al-Din’s conduct towards Antioch between 1149 and 1174 is distinctive and warrants further explanation; specifically how should we explain the intense pressure he placed on the principality between 1147 and 1149 followed by a long period in which he made only occasional attacks (beyond ensuring possession of the border fortress of Harim)?53 Perhaps the most logical explanation is that back in the mid-1140s Antioch under Raymond of Poitiers was re-emerging as a major threat to its neighbours. At this point, Nur al-Din had only recently taken power following his father’s death and possessed little more territory than Aleppo itself. In these circumstances, Antioch must have seemed an intimidating adversary and his defeat at Yaghra would only have confirmed this impression.54 Nevertheless, by 1149, having won a major victory at Inab and acquired the city of Edessa back in 1146, along with some parts of the broader Edessan county, Nur al-Din was on the ascendant and soon afterwards he embarked on his contest with the Anatolian Seljuks. He was also manoeuvring into a position to seize Damascus (as will be discussed below), which placed him in conflict with the kingdom of Jerusalem. By the 1160s he was engaged in a conflict over Egypt and as well as fending off the Seljuks and fighting his own internal dynastic disputes with Zangid rivals. Given the sheer number and variety of threats surrounding Nur al-Din’s territory coupled with his own expansionist ambitions it is scarcely surprising that he was content simply to maintain his frontier position at Harim and send only the occasional punitive raid over the border, without attempting to pose any serious threat to the principality’s heartlands. Antioch itself only spor­ad­ic­al­ly showed any willingness to fight Nur al-Din. Letters of appeal frequently betray a sustained fear of Turkish invasion, but this did not actually take place.55 The principality despatched several raiding parties and encouraged the Hospitallers to fortify and reconquer lands along its eastern marches, but—like Nur al-Din—the Antiochenes only showed serious determination for territorial expansion in their efforts to hold onto Harim.56 Another factor restraining Nur al-Din from attacking Antioch was the danger that any serious threat to the principality might provoke a substantial Byzantine counter-offensive. This was a real possibility because in 1158 Manuel Comnenus descended in force upon Cilicia, Antioch, and Northern Syria. There were several reasons for the emperor’s campaign in this year. Firstly, the reconquest of Cilicia from the Roupenids was a longstanding Byzantine objective and in 1158 Manuel 53  For discussion on this point see: Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 41. 54  Mallett, ‘The battle of Inab’, 51–5. 55  ‘Epistolae Henrici Remensis Archiepiscopi’, Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, ed. M.-J.-J. Brial, vol. 16 (Paris, 1878), 198–9. 56  A. Buck, ‘The military orders and the principality of Antioch: a help or hindrance’, The Military Orders VII: Piety, Pugnacity, and Property, ed. N. Morton (Abingdon, 2019), 288.

130  The Crusader States and their Neighbours proved very effective in pursuing this goal, driving the current ruler Toros II initially to take refuge in the mountains and then to formally submit. Secondly, Reynald, then the prince of Antioch, and Toros II, Roupenid leader of Cilicia, had started to co-operate with one another in recent years and this was a situation that Manuel wanted to avoid because it raised the danger that they might form a block against him. In c.1155 he had attempted to prevent just such a situation by commissioning Antioch to attack Cilicia, but when the Greeks failed to pay for the expedition, the Antiochenes changed tack, joined forces with Toros, raised a fleet, and sacked Byzantine Cyprus.57 This was a major and shocking reverse. Thirdly, Manuel wanted to re-assert Byzantine hegemony over the principality (as well as punishing Reynald of Châtillon for the attack on Cyprus).58 Manuel’s hand was strengthened further by the fact that he had recently forged an alliance with Baldwin III of Jerusalem, who had just married his niece Theodora. Baldwin was keen to win Manuel’s support against Nur al-Din and this would have added pressure on Reynald to submit.59 In the event, both Toros and Reynald managed to hold onto power by ­submitting to Manuel and there was some talk of a new offensive against Aleppo. This came to nothing however and Nur al-Din secured a treaty with Manuel, which precipitated the emperor’s withdrawal. He also seems to have discussed an alliance with the Greeks against their common foe: the Anatolian Seljuks.60 Reviewing this campaign, Manuel’s expedition ultimately had little effect upon the military status quo in Northern Syria, but at the very least his actions demonstrated that a major Byzantine intervention was possible and this thought seems to have steered Nur al-Din to be wary of doing anything that might provoke Byzantine retaliation. Following his victory over the Antiochene Franks at Harim in 1164 Ibn al-Athir claims that he deliberately held back from conquering Antioch itself out of fear that the Franks would hand the principality over to Emperor Manuel.61 Some Frankish sources likewise describe a fear that Manuel might stage a new attack on Antioch in 1164 and this danger is stated explicitly in two letters written to Louis VII of France in 1164 (before and after Harim).62 Having said this, the principality remained badly in need of external support and in recent years had turned frequently to Manuel Commenus for aid, so, following Harim, the current prince, Bohemond III, who had been taken prisoner during the battle, travelled to Constantinople to request the funds to secure his release from captivity.63 In 1167 Jerusalem’s king, Amalric,

57  WT, 824. For discussion: M.-A.Chevalier, Les ordres religieux-militaires, 95. 58  JK, 136–7. For discussion on the Byzantine attempts to intervene in Antiochene politics prior to 1158 see: Phillips, Defenders, 124–39. 59 Phillips, Defenders, 136.   60 JK, 144.   61  IAA(C), vol. 2, 148. 62  ‘Epistolarum volumen regis Ludovici VII’, 39–40, 63. 63  For discussion on Antiochene–Byzantine relations at this time see: Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 213.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  131 strengthened his relations with Manuel by marrying Maria (the daughter of Manuel’s nephew).64 Taken overall, despite the tumult of the 1140s, the period from 1150–74 witnessed very little fighting between Antioch and its neighbours; a new status quo asserted itself, built on the following new factors: (a) the expansionist incursions of the Anatolian Seljuks to the south/south-east; (b) Seljuk-Zangid rivalries over the former county of Edessa; (c) the eclipse of Antiochene military power by Nur al-Din; (d) Manuel Comnenus’ readiness to intervene in northern Syria and his willingness to act as benefactor and overlord to the Crusader States.

Military Activity 1149–74: the South The kingdom of Jerusalem—and to some extent the Crusader States as a whole— during the period from the late 1130s through to the early 1170s resembles the relatively calm space in the eye of a storm. As shown above, to the north, in the Jazira and Southern Anatolia, there was a great deal of fighting among the various Turkish factions, particularly over the former county of Edessa. Antioch was deeply embattled in the late 1140s but was then left in relative peace. As will be shown below, there was also a lot of campaigning in the Nile Delta (1160s) and in the region around Damascus (1150s), but, despite these incessant wars, the Crusader States themselves were only attacked infrequently with most of the violence taking place well beyond their borders. Jerusalem’s frontier with Damascus in particular was very quiet and its history during this period warrants retelling in full. In the wake of the Second Crusade the great danger facing the Damascenes was that Nur al-Din would sweep south and take control of the city, just as his father Zangi had attempted to do previously. This risk was only amplified by the fact that Nur al-Din had supported the city when it was under siege by the Second Crusade. This act supplied Nur alDin’s advocates with grounds to present the Zangids as the city’s saviours, making it harder for the city’s leaders to fend off his advances and raising the danger that the urban populace might side with Nur al-Din in a future conflict.65 Unur (the city’s atabeg and effective ruler) was clearly aware of this challenge and so in May 1149 he signed an armistice with the Franks against Nur al-Din, promising to pay

64  WT, 913; Phillips, Defenders, 154–5. 65  For discussion on this point see: Hoch, ‘The price of failure’, 188–94; S. Mourad and J. Lindsay, The Intensification and Reorientation of Sunni Jihad Ideology in the Cruasder Period: Ibn ‘Asākir of Damascus (1105–1176) and his Age, Islamic History and Civilization: Studies and Texts XCIX: (Leiden, 2013), 47–8.

132  The Crusader States and their Neighbours tribute to Jerusalem.66 Then after a brief flurry of military encounters, Damascus and the kingdom of Jerusalem agreed a new treaty in 1150.67 The events of 1150 were critical. Nur al-Din had learned of the brief spell of Frankish-Damascene fighting and so he moved south, stating his intention to fight a holy war against the Franks. Whether he knew by this stage that Damascus had signed a new treaty with Franks is unclear, but certainly his arrival placed the city’s leaders in a difficult situation. On one hand, Nur al-Din had arrived with his army and demanded Damascene support for a holy war against the city’s new allies—the Franks. Clearly Damascus’ rulers feared that by offering himself as the city’s champion, Nur al-Din was seeking to win sufficient support among the populace to stage a takeover.68 On the other hand, the Franks were prepared to support Damascus against Nur al-Din, but by reaching out for Frankish support the Damascene leadership would be opening themselves to the charge of siding with non-believers against their fellow Turks. In the event, Damascus’ leaders sided with the Franks, but this act did not deter Nur al-Din from advancing towards the city. Fortuitously for Nur al-Din, his arrival coincided with a series of heavy rain showers, which—following a period of drought—was viewed as highly symbolic by the citizenry who apparently could be heard chanting ‘This is due to his [Nur al-Din’s] blessed influence, his justice, and his upright conduct.’69 Nur al-Din then encamped outside the city, sending messages to the populace, presenting himself as the defender of the Damascene people and their champion against the Franks. Damascus’ leaders responded by threatening Nur al-Din, advising him of an inbound Frankish relief force and asking him to leave. Of course—from a propaganda perspective—their defiance only played into Nur al-Din’s hands—discrediting them in the eyes of the populace as Frankish collaborators. Under pressure, in May 1150, Damascus was compelled to accept Nur al-Din as the city’s overlord and his name was given both in the khutbah and on the coinage.70 Over the following months, Nur al-Din continued his propaganda war against Damascus, evidently seeking to take full control. In 1150 Turkmen tribes raided the city’s hinterland, supported by the governor of Bosra. Rumours abounded that this was Nur al-Din’s doing, presumably to highlight the city’s weakness and to force its leaders to seek his support.71 The following year in May 1151, Nur alDin changed his tactics, arriving with a large army and fighting with Damascus’ 66 IQ, 290.   67  IQ, 296. 68  One possible indicator of Nur al-Din’s fame as a religious leader may be the movement of the Banu Qudama from the Frankish-ruled Nablus region to Damascus in 1156. Drory has suggested that Nur al-Din’s ascension may be connected to their decision to move: J. Drory, ‘Ḥanbalīs of the Nablus region in the Eleventh and Twelfth centuries’, Asia and African Studies, 22 (1983), 98. 69  Translation: IQ, 297. 70  IQ, 299. Although note that Unur was also employing Jihad propaganda during this period: Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 168. 71  IQ, 301.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  133 defenders. Again, he appealed to the city’s populace proclaiming his desire to support all Muslims and his commitment to holy war. Damascus’ farmlands were also thoroughly pillaged by troops from both sides (Nur al-Din’s forces and the city’s defenders).72 He only withdrew in June on learning of the imminent arrival of the kingdom of Jerusalem’s army. For a brief space the Damascene–Frankish alliance shadowboxed with Nur al-Din but eventually the Zangid force retired. Nur al-Din renewed his offensive soon afterwards, raiding Damascus and fighting with the city’s defenders. He continued to protest however his aversion to the killing of Muslims (despite the above encounters) and to assert that he would make no attempt on the city’s walls. Then, after an agreement with the city’s rulers, he marched south against Bosra, again demanding Damascus’ military support against its governor who was rumoured to be negotiating with the Franks.73 In October the Damascenes sent a deputation to Aleppo where they submitted to Nur al-Din, promising to serve him faithfully.74 Nur al-Din was rapidly becoming a substantial military power. As shown in Table 5.1, estimates of his army sizes

Table 5.1  Armies raised by Zangid rulers (1146–76) Battle with the Artuqids (1130) Attack on Edessa (1146) Battle of Yaghra (1148)

4000 cavalry (Ibn al-Athir)

IAA(HA), 71

10,000 cavalry—Nur al-Din (Ibn al-Qalanisi and Bar Hebraeus) 10,000 Turkish casualties—Nur al-Din (Anonymous Syriac Chronicle) 6,000 cavalry—Nur al-Din (Ibn al-Qalanisi) 30,000 troops—Nur al-Din (Ibn al-Qalanisi)

IQ, 274; BH, 273 ASC2, 300

Battle of Inab (1149) Assault of Damascus (1151) Attempt to relieve the 10,000 cavalry and infantry—Nur al-Din siege of Ascalon (1153) (Ibn al-Qalanisi) Capture of Reynald of 10,000 troops—Majd al-Din, Nur al-Din’s Châtillon (1160) commander in Aleppo (Matthew of Edessa) Egyptian campaign (1164) 30,000 troops—Shirkuh (Bertrand of Blancfort)75 Egyptian campaign (1167) 2000 cavalry—Shirkuh (Ibn al-Athir) Egyptian campaign (1168) 8000 cavalry—Shirkuh (Ibn al-Athir) Horns of Hama (1175) Battle against Saladin (1176)

20,000 troops76 20,000 troops77

IQ, 291 IQ, 308 IQ, 316 ME, 279

IAA(C), vol. 2, 163 IAA(C), vol. 2, 173

72 IQ, 304.   73 IQ, 310.   74  IQ, 310. 75  ‘Epistolarum volumen regis Ludovici VII’, 80. 76  Primary source reference taken from: M. C. Lyons and D. E. P. Jackson, Saladin: the Politics of the Holy War (Cambridge, 2001), 93. 77  Reference from Imad al-Din in: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 103.

134  The Crusader States and their Neighbours rarely fall below five figures, and with Aleppo, Edessa, as well as much of the Jazira and northern Syria under his control he could clearly muster considerable forces.78 The final act in this drama began in 1153 when Nur al-Din restated his intention to wage jihad against the Franks and made another demand for Damascene support. During his journey south, he made no move against the kingdom of Jerusalem but descended yet again on Damascus and prevented the grain convoys from reaching the city; sending prices shooting upwards.79 Apparently his advance was preceded by a series of letters to senior figures within the city, seeking to secure aid, or at least to stir up dissent.80 In March 1154 his forces reached the city where he instigated a series of skirmishes with the city’s defenders. Zangid forces then seized an opportunity to scale the city walls, subsequently taking control across the entire city. Nur al-Din was apparently received with joy by the city’s populace and he spent the following days placating all the city’s major religious and secular power brokers by announcing new laws and tax cuts. The city was his.81 Nur al-Din’s conquest of Damascus warrants the closest attention for two main reasons. The first is that the struggle between Nur al-Din and Tughtakin’s heirs consumed the attention of both factions for many years. Despite Nur al-Din’s repeatedly stated determination to fight the kingdom of Jerusalem he scarcely ever crossed the frontier, relying for his jihad credentials on his earlier wars with Edessa and Antioch. Jerusalem itself had to raise an army on occasion to show support for Damascus, but these expeditions did not result in any major encounter and did not take place anywhere near Frankish territory. In this way, between 1148 and 1154, Jerusalem was largely sheltered by this inter-Turkish duel. Damascus’ overthrow is also significant because it showcases a very different strategy for conquering a major Near Eastern city. As discussed above, the Franks’ standard game-plan for taking big cities populated largely by non-Christians (revealed at the sieges of: Tripoli 1109, Tyre 1124, Aleppo 1124, Damascus 1129) focused on the long-term application of sustained military pressure. The basic pattern was to: establish a long-term blockade supported by counter-forts; conduct regular raids; secure neighbouring towns and castles; and then stage an overwhelming frontal assault. The Franks did recognize the importance of winning the willing support of at least some of the inhabitants—seeking assistance from Dubays to win over the populace in Aleppo in 1124 and the Nizaris in Damascus in 1129—but they only rarely had the opportunity to court such factions (and neither of these attempted alliances actually worked). Nur al-Din’s conquest of Damascus, however, was a very different endeavour. Here his campaign hinged on winning over the populace and turning them against their own rulers. To achieve this, he appealed to their common faith and 78  For further discussion on the size of the armies raised by Nur al-Din see: Y. Lev, ‘The jihād of sultan Nūr al-Dīn of Syria (1146–1174): history and discourse’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 35 (2008), 261. 79 IQ, 317.   80  IAA(C), vol. 2, 71.    81  IQ, 320–1.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  135 their shared responsibility to fight the Franks. Such appeals were then coupled with aggressive reminders of his military power and, by extension, the inability of Damascus’ existing rulers to fend off his advances. The best source for Nur alDin’s use of these strategies is Ibn al-Qalanisi’ history, which admittedly was written after Nur al-Din’s conquest. The fact that he was writing in a now-Zangid city might suggest the conclusion that his recollections of Nur al-Din’s actions were slanted to secure his favour. Even so, there are other more contemporary poetic sources which affirm Nur al-Din’s use of these propaganda ideas.82 Nur al-Din’s choice of tactics at Damascus reveals the substantial differences involved in conquering a city populated largely by co-religionists, against the Franks’ attempts to seize cities populated by non-believers. Nur al-Din and other conquerors like him had fewer obstacles to surmount when seeking to take power in Damascus and more tools at their disposal. In Nur al-Din’s case, he leant strongly on religious arguments coupled with denunciations of the Damascene leadership’s alliance with the Franks. This diplomatic/religious pressure, coupled with a strong dose of military force, ultimately succeeded in laying the foundations for a takeover that both his father (whose adherence to Islam was questionable) and the Franks (non-believers) had repeatedly failed to achieve. In these rather different circumstances, commanders such as Nur al-Din ­tackled a rather different challenge. A city’s populace could be tractable to their promises and demands in a way that they would not be with a Frankish conqueror. In adopting this posture Nur al-Din was far from unique and many other commanders, both before and after, used this same blended military-diplomatic approach. Notably, Turkish/Kurdish conquerors managed to conquer both Damascus and Aleppo on two occasions each during this period (using precisely these kinds of tactics) while the Franks failed on every attempt. The very different outcomes achieved by these Turkish and Frankish aggressors can be explained by the substantially greater willingness of Muslim-majority populations to contemplate a Turkish/co-religionist overthrow as opposed to a Frankish/non-believer conquest. This pattern is confirmed by the Turks’ initial conquest of Damascus back in the 1070s when they—like the Franks in the twelfth century—had been an unknown and foreign force. At this time, the Turkmen leader Atsiz first sought the conquest of Damascus from the Fatimids but it took him five years of annual raiding and assaults before the city’s defenders finally yielded.83 Ibn al-Athir makes no mention of diplomacy or negotiation until Damascus’ final capitulation and Atsiz made no concessions having taken control; indeed he is said to have tyrannized the population.84 Clearly the population resisted him until the last. 82 Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword, 83–4; Mourad and Lindsay, The Intensification and Reorientation of Sunni Jihad Ideology, 51–2. 83  For discussion see: Burns, Damascus, 169; Gil, A History of Palestine, 409–11. 84  Although the population was apparently pleased that he switched the khutbah from the Fatimids to the Abbasids. IAA(AST), 190.

136  The Crusader States and their Neighbours His campaign was substantially more brutal than Nur al-Din’s military-diplomatic takeover, relying heavily on long-term military pressure; an approach similar to the Franks’ standard strategy described above. Comparing the two campaigns—by Atsiz and Nur al-Din—the distinctions between these two conquests seem to indicate a preference among Damascus’ population for leaders whose cultural background and style of rule were familiar— ‘known quantities’—as opposed to commanders from peoples who had never ruled the city. This would certainly explain the citizens’ staunch resistance in the 1070s, when Atsiz could not anticipate any internal support and consequently had to suppress the populace by force, and their more persuadable stance in the 1150s, by which stage Turkish rule was far more familiar and Nur al-Din was well known to be a pious Sunni Muslim; thus enabling him to use more subtle diplomatic strategies. A comparable situation might be seen, viewed from the Frankish perspective, in the relative ease which  Antiochene armies conquered Armenian towns or cities populated by co-religionists, with locations such as Tarsus and Mamistra falling relatively quickly under their control, compared to the immense difficulties encountered by the Franks in assaulting cities with large Muslim populations. Following his conquest of Damascus, and despite his repeatedly declared commitment to fight the Franks, Nur al-Din rarely took the field against the Franks in later years. In 1155 and again in 1156 and 1159 Nur al-Din (and his lieutenants) made treaties with the kingdom, enabling him to both consolidate his position in Damascus and to manage the other threats to his lands.85 The much-promised jihad against the Franks did not materialize and he made no serious move against the kingdom until 1157 when his forces unsuccessfully besieged the important frontier castle of Banyas, following which he achieved a battlefield victory at ‘Ain al-Mallaha over the Jerusalemite army.86 His forces staged several further attacks the following year but were then badly defeated.87 The kingdom of Jerusalem, by contrast, proved far more pugilistic, launching six raids against Damascene territory between 1157 and 1160. Most of these raiding attacks elicited no response.88 Nur al-Din did not stage another major incursion into the kingdom until 1164 when his forces took the frontier town of Banyas, but this campaign was again followed by many years of peace when the kingdom was scarcely troubled by attacks. Despite these rather limited incursions, the Jerusalemites seem to have been worried by Nur al-Din’s rising power to the north-east and began to build up their fortifications facing Damascus, refortifying Safad in the 1140s, 85  1155: IQ, 322; 1156: IQ, 327; 1159: WT, 850. 86 For discussion on the location and topography of the battle see: M.  Ehrlich, ‘The Battle of ‘Ain al-Mallāha, 19 June 1157’, The Journal of Military History, 83 (2019), 31–43. 87  IQ, 346–7; WT, 841–2. 88  Raids: Feb 1157: IQ, 327; April 1157 (although this may have been a Tripolitan raid): IQ, 330; Dec 1157: WT, 838; Feb-Mar 1158: IQ, 344–5; 1159: WT, 850; 1160: WT, 851.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  137 reinforcing Banyas in 1157, building Hunin in c.1157 and Belvoir after 1168.89 The Templars also took possession of the fortress of Safad.90 Previously such defences had rarely been necessary given that for decades Jerusalem and Damascus had generally co-operated with one another or the Franks had been on the offensive. Major Damascene offensives had been a rare event. Taken overall, Nur al-Din essentially followed his predecessors in making no serious effort to tackle Jerusalem. Presumably the kingdom was simply too ambitious a target. His very sporadic attacks may be better explained as attempts to maintain the creditability of his assumed position as the defender of Damascus and champion of Jihad. There is certainly very little to suggest a coherent policy. Of course, it might be objected that Nur al-Din was in no position to maintain a stance of steady opposition to anyone during this period, given that he had so many Turkish enemies in the north. In addition to these he also faced rebellions from his brother Nusrat al-Din (late 1150s)91 and the governor of Manbij (1166–7).92 He also suffered from a major period of illness and engaged in rivalries with the Zangids of Mosul. For these reasons it could be argued that his very limited attacks on Jerusalem should be explained with reference to the entangling influence of other issues, rather than any lack of motivation. Even so, it is hard to escape the conclusion that, despite his rhetoric, Jerusalem was not a priority for Nur al-Din. As his own behaviour towards the city of Damascus between 1148–54 demonstrates, he could maintain intense long-term pressure on an enemy target if he wanted it badly enough, even when burdened with other priorities. Another strategic objective, which demonstrates Nur al-Din’s willingness to maintain a steady pressure on a single opponent, was his involvement in the famous struggle for Egypt, which began in earnest in the early 1160s. This represents the next great phase in his career which will now be reviewed. The background to this war was the long-term decline of the Fatimid Empire which was becoming increasingly conspicuous during the 1150s. A measure of the empire’s increasing enfeeblement was the rapid decline in the pressure it exerted on the kingdom of Jerusalem during the mid-late twelfth century. The attacks which had been so consistent—if very unsuccessful—between 1099 and 1105 dropped rapidly and much of the mid-twelfth century is characterized by occasional sporadic raiding. Naval attacks remained a danger but the Fatimids’ galley fleet was hampered by its inability to resupply and take on water at any point on the

89  For discussion on Belvoir see: A. Boas, Archaeology of the Military Orders: a Survey of the Urban Centres, Rural Settlements and Castles of the Military Orders in the Latin East (c.1120–1291) (London, 2006), 122–4 and passim. For context and further discussion see also: Riley-Smith, The Knights, 34; Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 180. For Safad and Hunin see: Pringle, Secular Buildings, 79, 91; Kennedy, Crusader Castles, 42–3. With regard to Hunin and Safad, Ehrlich makes the interesting point that contemporary historians describing the events of 1157 first begin to describe these sites as ‘castles’. He suggests that Hunin had been newly constructed by 1157: Ehrlich, ‘The Battle of ‘Ain al-Mallāha’, 35. 90  UKJ, vol. 2, 562–3.    91 IQ, 342.   92  IAA(C), vol. 2, 167.

138  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Levantine coast north of Ascalon (post 1124); the coastal cities by then being in Frankish hands. Tellingly in 1126 a Fatimid fleet advanced along the Levantine coast but finding no place to re-water, was forced to risk landing in Frankish territory, where its forces were then ambushed and defeated.93 The Fatimid navy did try at times to assert itself as a military force, but in reality control over the Eastern Mediterranean had long been resigned to the Italian cities. On the other side of the border, the kingdom of Jerusalem had shown itself to be an equally lacklustre opponent. As shown above, there seems to have been some intention to assault Egypt under Baldwin I, but this ambition was not resurrected either by Baldwin II or Fulk and Melisende. There is some mention in a charter issued in 1126 by Hugh, lord of Jaffa, of the ambition to conquer Ascalon but it was not followed up.94 It was only with the accession of Baldwin III that Jerusalem re-assumed a position of determined aggression towards either the Fatimids or its other neighbours. For comparison, the kingdom of Jerusalem under Fulk and Melisende launched an average of 0.66 incursions per year, whereas this number rose substantially to an annual average of 1.1 campaigns under Baldwin III. He also achieved territorial gains in a way that his parents had not. The first indication of Baldwin’s enthusiasm for war with Egypt dates back to 1150 when Jerusalemite forces entered the Nile Delta and sacked al-Farama (the same target as Baldwin I’s raid in 1118).95 In 1152 Jerusalem’s army conducted a heavy raid on Ascalon and the following year Baldwin staged a full-scale siege of the city, which culminated in its conquest.96 By the mid-1150s the conquest of Egypt was seemingly a rising priority for Jerusalemite strategists. In 1156 Baldwin settled an agreement with the Pisans, banning them from all commerce in war materials with the Egyptians97 and in c.1157 Baldwin promised his nobleman Joscelin Pissellus that if Egypt could be taken then he would receive an estate capable of maintaining 100 knights.98 In 1158 the Fatimids began to pay tribute to the kingdom of Jerusalem (apparently 33,000 dinars p.a.)99 and in 1161 Baldwin’s brother Amalric led an army into Egypt, to enforce the payment of these monies.100 During the 1150s the Fatimids made some effort to retaliate against the mounting Frankish pressure. The Ascalon garrison made several raids during this period101

93  FC, 804–5; Pryor, Geography, Technology and War, 115.   94  RRR, no. 234. 95 IM, 469.   96  1152: BH, vol. 1, 278; IQ, 312. 1153: IQ, 314–16; WT, 789–805. 97  UKJ, vol. 1, 446–9. 98  UKJ, vol. 1, 457–9. For discussion see: Barber, The Crusader States, 204. 99 Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World, 201. 100  The reference to the 1161 campaign can be found in BH, vol. 1, 286. Bar Hebraeus does not normally supply much new information for Frankish–Fatimid relations and it is suspicious that no other sources report this attack. Yet, it does tally with the available evidence. Having said this, the Franks had attempted to force the Fatimids to pay tribute back in 1155. See: IQ, 323. For the imposition of tribute in 1158 see: Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 186. 101  UIM, 25–6. For discussion see: P.  M.  Cobb, Usama ibn Munqidh: Warrior-poet of the age of Crusades, Makers of the Muslim World (London, 2005), 43.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  139 supported by naval attacks on the Frankish coast in 1151, 1155, and 1156.102 In 1156 they attempted to incite the Bedouin to raid the Franks103 with further attacks on the kingdom’s southern borders and Transjordan in 1158.104 The frequency of these attacks was far higher than in previous decades; seemingly a reaction to mounting Jerusalemite pressure and the assertive leadership of the Fatimid vizier Ibn Ruzzik. As Ibn Abi Tayy reported concerning Ibn Ruzzik, ‘[he] did not stop his raids against the Franks, and he would fight them on land one year, and by sea another year and sometimes both on land and by sea’.105 He also endeavoured to build relations with Nur al-Din—and vice versa—with envoys sent in 1150 and 1158 (to Damascus) and by return in 1157 (to Egypt).106 The intensity of the conflict is reflected in other contexts. In 1154 the Fatimids completed a commercial treaty with the Pisans but stipulated that their merchants should not be accompanied by Franks from the Crusader States because it was  feared that they might be spies.107 Even so, these raids and diplomatic exchanges achieved no territorial gains. Internally, the Fatimid Empire in the decades before 1160 witnessed repeated rebellions fought out between army contingents, pretenders to the vizierate and caliphate, regional governors, and dynastic challengers. Within these contests a further layer of tension was created on religious grounds between the empire’s Shia caliphs and governors and its Christian, Shia, and Sunni viziers. The lines of tension were numerous and no one proved capable of ending the ongoing violence. By 1161 Egypt’s spiralling internal problems were laid bare following the murder of the vizier Ibn Ruzzik. The Nubians invaded from the south and the new vizier, Ibn Ruzzik’s son, was soon overthrown by Shawar (governor of Qus). Shawar took power as vizier and, having allowed the Bedouin to plunder much of the Eastern Nile Delta found himself confronted in turn by a rival named Dirgham who offered himself as a new contender for the vizierate. Dirgham then ousted Shawar (who took refuge with Nur al-Din) and cancelled the empire’s annual tribute to the kingdom of Jerusalem.108 These events set the stage for what would become a three-sided war for Egypt, fought out between internal Fatimid factions, the kingdom of Jerusalem, and Nur al-Din via his Kurdish lieutenant Shirkuh. Very briefly, the war unfolded as follows: 1163—Amalric of Jerusalem invaded Egypt, defeated Dirgham in battle, and would have advanced further except that Dirgham broke the dykes holding back the waters of the Nile and flooded much of the eastern delta, blocking his path. 102  IQ, 307–8, 323; IM, 470.    103 IM, 470.   104  IM, 471–2; IQ, 346. 105  Translation from Ibn al-Furat’s history: Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World, 189. 106  IM, 472–3; UIM, 23 (for discussion see: Cobb, Usama ibn Munqidh, 43). 107  D.  Jacoby, ‘Diplomacy, trade, shipping and espionage between Byzantium and Egypt in the Twelfth Century’, Latins, Greeks and Muslims: Encounters in the Eastern Mediterranean, 10th–15th Centuries (Farnham, 2009), II 84. 108  History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church, vol. 3:1, 82–5; Brett, Fatimid Empire, 288–9.

140  The Crusader States and their Neighbours 1164—In April, Shawar set out for Egypt supported by Nur al-Din’s army (led by Shirkuh). Dirgham then appealed to Amalric for aid, promising to resume the annual tribute. When Shawar and Shirkuh reached Egypt, they defeated the Fatimid army and Dirgham was killed in the fighting. Shirkuh then demanded that Shawar grant Nur al-Din the reward promised for his intervention. This was one-third of Egypt’s total revenue. Shawar refused to pay and instead called upon the Franks to drive Shirkuh’s forces away. Amalric duly arrived and forced Shirkuh to return to Syria. 1167—Shirkuh launched a new offensive into Egypt, causing Amalric to march in support of Shawar and pursue the Zangid forces into the Nile Delta. Shirkuh then advanced on Giza and managed to secure the submission of much of the Western Delta. The Franks arrived soon afterwards and drove Shirkuh south where the Turkish forces scored a marginal victory over the Franks at al-Balbein. Shirkuh then moved north and seized Alexandria which was soon besieged by the Frankish–Fatimid coalition. Shirkuh then departed for Upper Egypt, leaving a garrison in Alexandria under the command of his nephew Saladin. Alexandria fell soon afterwards and Shirkuh was compelled to depart. Amalric completed his campaign by negotiating a highly advantageous treaty with Shawar which ef­fect­ ive­ly placed Egypt under Frankish hegemony. 1168–9—Amalric invaded again seeking the full conquest of Egypt. He took and sacked the frontier town of Bilbays and then advanced on Cairo, hoping to secure the city’s quick submission. Seemingly he had been given grounds to believe that the Fatimids’ major cities might simply hand themselves over to him; a conviction reflected in an agreement he made with the Hospitallers prior to the campaign.109 The Cairene populace, however, appalled by the Franks’ savagery at Bilbays, offered determined resistance to his assault. As Ibn al-Athir commented: ‘Had the Franks behaved well towards the people at Bilbays, they would have conquered old and new Cairo.’110 Clearly the Frankish soldiery’s ingrained belief that they had the right to plunder fallen settlements worked heavily against them on this occasion.111 Amalric soon concluded that the siege would not succeed and allowed himself to be bought off. Shawar meanwhile secured aid from Shirkuh who arrived in early 1169. The Franks tried to block his approach, but Shirkuh evaded them, subsequently managing to reach Cairo where he killed Shawar and took power. 1169—Amalric invaded Egypt once again with Byzantine assistance and besieged the coastal city of Damietta. The siege failed and the combined armies withdrew.

109  UKJ, vol. 2, 581.    110  Translation: IAA(C), vol. 2, 172. 111  For discussion on the Frankish attitude to plunder see: Y. Friedman, ‘Did the laws of war exist in the Crusader kingdom of Jerusalem?’, De Sion exibit lex et verbum domini de Hierusalem: Essays on Medieval Law, Liturgy, and Literature in Honour of Amnon Linder, ed. Y. Hen, Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages I (Turnhout, 2001), 87.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  141 Importantly, while Amalric was fighting—and ultimately losing—his wars for control of Egypt, Nur al-Din made substantial advances across Syria. He won the abovementioned Battle of Harim in 1164 against Antioch, seizing the fortress of Harim itself. In the same year he took Banyas on Jerusalem’s Damascene border and in 1167 he launched a devastating raid across the county of Tripoli, whilst also destroying the kingdom of Jerusalem’s castle of Hunin.112 His ob­ject­ive with many of these attacks was clearly to distract Amalric away from his Egyptian ventures and this is particularly clear in his conquest of Banyas in 1164. On this occasion he collected the scalps of the fallen Franks and then sent them to Shirkuh—then under siege in Bilbays—to demonstrate to Amalric’s forces that their own lands were under attack.113 Seemingly, during the 1160s, the county of Tripoli was starting to feel increasingly vulnerable to attack and it is notable that when in 1163 the abbey of Mount Tabor leased properties near to the city of Tripoli it included a clause in the agreement dealing with the eventuality that these lands might all be destroyed by enemy attack—hitherto such clauses had not been common.114 Nur al-Din also waged war against other opponents and in 1168 he crushed the last major bastion of Arab power in the Jazira by conquering the Banu Uqayl’s fortress of Qal‘at Ja‘bar and later their town of Saruj. Reviewing the history of these campaigns both in Egypt and Syria, several important patterns are evident in the protagonists’ military behaviour. From the Franks’ perspective, Amalric was prepared to prioritize the conquest of Egypt over the defence of the other Crusader states. He was not disinterested in the problems facing these Frankish territories and went to the Northern States to offer support in 1164 and 1173. Having said this, Egypt was clearly his main objective (and remained so at least in theory for many years to come), reflecting presumably his awareness that if Jerusalem could acquire the Nile Delta’s commercial and agricultural incomes then it would become a virtually unstoppable force against any other enemy. At times Amalric’s behaviour bordered on the obsessive, but ultimately he was unsuccessful in his aims. From Nur al-Din’s perspective, even though he had many more priorities to engage his attention, and was able to send fewer armies into Egypt than Amalric, the resulting struggle ultimately vindicated his willingness to split his forces into two armies, one to be led by himself in the north and the other by Shirkuh (mostly in Egypt). More importantly, he now possessed an extremely powerful empire consisting of Edessa, Aleppo, Damascus, and Egypt. In addition, Nur al-Din’s suppression of the Banu Uqayl also represents an important moment in Syrian history. As Ibn al-Athir observed, the fall of Qal‘at Ja‘bar and Saruj marked the end of the Banu Uqayl—the last remaining Arab dynasty to hold power in the 112  IAA(C), vol. 2, 165. Although it was rebuilt later in 1178: Tibble, Monarchy and Lordships, 22. 113 Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World, 212. 114  RRR, no. 716.

142  The Crusader States and their Neighbours region.115 The others had fallen to the Turks in previous years. The Banu Munqidh lost Shaizar to Nur al-Din in 1157, while the Banu Mazyad of al-Hilla in Iraq and Banu Kilab of the Aleppan region had long ceased to be a political force.116 Underlying Arab-Turkish tensions persisted however and Michael the Syrian mentions widespread violence involving thousands of casualties breaking out between these groups when Nur al-Din fell ill and was feared to have died in 1172.117 These campaigns also confirm several of the strategic patterns noted above, concerning the conquest of major cities. Between 1163 and 1169, there were four attempts to besiege major cities: the Frankish–Fatimid conquest of Alexandria (1167), the Frankish assault on Cairo (1168), Shirkuh’s conquest of Cairo (1169), and the Frankish siege of Damietta (1169). Only two of these sieges were ­successful—Alexandria in 1167 and Shirkuh’s conquest of Cairo in 1169—and it is not­able that on both occasions the conqueror had support from a substantial faction within the city. William of Tyre reports that, as the siege progressed, the people of Alexandria became more hostile towards Saladin and were prepared to cast him out in favour of the Frankish–Fatimid coalition.118 Likewise Shirkuh had Shawar’s support in 1169. By contrast, the Frankish advance on Cairo in 1168 failed precisely because the Franks’ brutal treatment of the town of Bilbays steeled the Cairenes against them. Likewise, Shirkuh’s use of blended tactics against Cairo in 1169, combining diplomatic pressure with military force—rather like Nur alDin’s overthrow of Damascus—underlines the efficacy of this approach. The remaining years of Nur al-Din’s rule achieved little against the Crusader States. He was now superbly positioned to strike against the kingdom of Jerusalem, but his Egyptian forces proved unwilling to co-operate. The crucial figure here is Saladin who took power in Egypt following his uncle Shirkuh’s death in 1169. Apparently, Saladin was concerned that if he and Nur al-Din ever met then he would be removed from office.119 Thus, Nur al-Din’s two attempts to launch a two-pronged assault on the kingdom of Jerusalem, in conjunction with Saladin, in 1171 and 1173 came to nothing and he died apparently planning to lead an army into Egypt to remove his rebellious lieutenant.120 Nur al-Din’s ability to concentrate on his struggle with Jerusalem was also hampered by the death of Qutb al-Din, lord of Mosul; an event which caused Nur al-Din to lead an army into the Jazira in 1170, seizing several strongholds held by rival Zangids and in 1171 imposing his own candidate in power in Mosul.121 He also became involved

115  IAA(C), vol. 2, 171.    116  IAA(C), vol. 2, 87–9.    117  MS, 700. 118 WT, 904–5. Although they seem to have been initially enthusiastic about Saladin’s arrival because, according to Ibn al-Furat, the city’s Sunni population welcomed him as a co-religionist: Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World, 219. 119  IAA(C), vol. 2, 199.    120  IAA(C), vol. 2, 198–9; 213–14; 221. 121  IAA(C), vol. 2, 192–3.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  143 in a new conflict with the Anatolian Seljuks in 1173—still fighting over the former county of Edessa and the former Antiochene march around Marash.122 Frankish military activity in the later years of Amalric’s reign (1169–74) seems equally short-termist and limited in its objectives. Amalric pursued diplomatic efforts to restart his quest for Egypt and in 1171 he went to visit Manuel Comnenus to seek his aid, but nothing came of it. At some point shortly before 1170 he ordered the construction of the small castle of Darum to the south of Gaza, presumably to provide a listening post and potential staging point for campaigns into Egypt but made no further attacks.123 In 1174 he attempted to regain Banyas but was subsequently bought off.

Frankish Manpower and Mercenaries It is a staple argument—expressed in almost every history of the Crusader States—that the Eastern Franks were permanently short of manpower; especially troops.124 This conviction has frequently assumed centre stage in verdicts concerning the long-term survivability of the Crusader States (or lack of it) with some voicing the opinion that the paucity of fighters and settlers meant that the struggle to hold Jerusalem was always going to be a doomed project. Advocates of this view can point to the smallness of the Frankish settler population (estimated at about 120,000 for the kingdom of Jerusalem in 1187) and the vast forces avail­ able to their foes.125 Stressing the importance of the ‘manpower problem’ is all very well, as far as it goes. Certainly several contemporary writers do comment on the diminutive Frankish population and the uneasy sense of being demographically outnumbered must only have been exacerbated by the difficulties involved in travelling between Outremer and mainland Europe (particularly outside the sailing season). Even so, this is a debate which rewards closer attention. The military manpower available to the Crusader States’ armies (excluding contingents supplied by regional allies and defectors) can be divided roughly into four overlapping categories: (1) Frankish settlers—‘Eastern Franks’—and other non-Frankish warriors resident in the east who owed military services for their landholdings; (2) troops who rendered service for pay; (3) pilgrims, Crusaders, and 122  IAA(C), vol. 2, 213; IS, 48. 123  WT, 937; Kennedy, Crusader Castles, 31. Ellenblum says that it was constructed at the end of the 1160s: Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 180. 124  For a handful of examples see: J. Prawer, The Crusaders’ Kingdom: European Colonialism in the Middle Ages (New York, 1972), 280–1; Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 8; P. Adair, ‘Flemish com­ it­al family and the Crusades’, The Crusades: Other Experiences, Alternate Perspectives, ed. K. Semaan (Binghampton, NY, 2003), 101; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 32. 125 J.  Prawer, Crusader Institutions (Oxford, 1980), 380. This estimate is supported by France in: ‘Crusading warfare’, 56.

144  The Crusader States and their Neighbours those visiting the east to defend the Holy Places; and (4) military orders personnel. Dividing up the Eastern Franks’ armies in this way is not without its problems. Many soldiers would have fitted into more than one category. These might include pilgrim knights requiring pay to maintain themselves, mercenaries employed by the military orders, or household knights living permanently in the east but receiving their rewards in cash. Even so, this model does broadly capture the available soldiery. Most of these groups have been well studied, but further discussion is needed on the role played by mercenaries in Latin Eastern forces. As will be shown, the use of paid troops represents a crucial factor in any discussion on ‘manpower’. The most important predicate on this topic is that, having conducted a thorough survey of the sources, I can find hardly any evidence of Frankish commanders struggling to source sufficient troops whilst preparing for any major campaign. This complaint is almost never made (at least after the first decade of Crusader settlement).126 Nevertheless, there is another complaint that is almost omnipresent throughout the sources: a lack of money—specifically money to pay troops. This arises time and again.127 Albert of Aachen depicts Baldwin I and Tancred as almost perpetually short of funds to pay their warriors, even to the point of launching raids or demanding tribute for no other reason than to generate plunder and thereby to cover their costs.128 Ralph of Caen makes it perfectly clear that in 1105 Antioch’s troops would not fight unless they were paid, compelling Tancred to extort a substantial levy on Antioch’s population.129 This problem did not go away. Joscelin II of Edessa was struggling to pay his soldiers in 1109130 and then in the 1140s;131 so was: Baldwin II in 1124,132 Baldwin III in 1156,133 Amalric in 1166 and 1171,134 Baldwin IV in 1183,135 and Guy in 1187.136 Financial need could drive Frankish rulers into marriage alliances (such as Baldwin I’s bigamous union with Adelaide of Salerno) or to go to war (Reynald of Châtillon’s ex­ped­ ition to Cyprus has been explained in terms of his need for money); or to lift their sieges in return for cash/tribute (such as during the Second Crusade).137 Likewise,

126  Early complaints about a lack of manpower include: AA, 696; RC, 127. 127  This chronic need for cash is noted in: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 44–5; Barber, Crusader States, 209–10. 128  For examples see: AA, 700–2, 828, 834.    129 RC, 129.   130  WT, 510–12. 131 WT, 718.   132 FC, 694.   133 WT, 825.   134  WT, 882, 940–1. 135  WT, 1043–6. For discussion on the tax levied in this year see: B. Kedar, ‘The general tax of 1183 in the crusading kingdom of Jerusalem: innovation or adaptation’, The English Historical Review, 89 (1974), 339–45; M. Nader, Burgesses and Burgess Law in the Latin Kingdoms of Jerusalem and Cyprus (1099–1325) (Aldershot, 2006), 46. See also: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter  3, paras 54–61 (online edition). 136  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. M.  R.  Morgan, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des Croisades XIV (Paris, 1982), 43. 137 Barber, Crusader States, 113, 209–10.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  145 the many letters of appeal to Western Christendom and the embassies sent to the Byzantine Empire routinely asked for cash.138 The obvious implication arising from Frankish rulers’ perennial complaints about the financial problems involved in raising their armies is that troops were available, but that the ruler lacked the means to hire them. These would not ne­ces­sar­ily have been warriors easily identifiable as ‘mercenaries’. Armies are expensive and rulers may have found themselves paying out even to support troops who were in theory cost-neutral, such as those who received their income/ maintenance from either their landholdings or an institution (i.e. the military orders). By extension, those warriors who worked for pay could also take many different forms, including crossbowmen, turcopoles, Arab or Turkish warriors, siege engineers (from multiple cultures), and heavy cavalry.139 There was also naturally a considerable difference in status between an elite household knight maintained in style at the epicentre of his lord’s household and a poorly-armed infantryman on a temporary contract. The diversity of hireable soldiery—their varying motivations, required remuneration, terms of service, etc.—all contribute to the problem of defining ‘a mercenary’.140 Nevertheless, focusing on the issue of motivation, many of the events described by chroniclers—including Tancred’s problems described above in 1105—involved situations where the troops were simply not prepared to fight unless their pay was forthcoming. In such cases, given that evidently neither faith nor the thought of Christian territorial loses could stir them into action, we are talking about troops existing in close proximity to a classic definition of ‘mercenary forces’. As will be shown, the Frankish states relied heavily on such troops, but before the level of this dependency can be identified, it is necessary to provide some background to the mer­cen­ary market in Outremer. The study of mercenaries in the Latin East has developed steadily over the past few decades, raising a range of questions, but perhaps the most important issue has been to identify the scale of the mercenary market. Some historians have

138  For example: N. Jaspert, ‘Zwei unbekannte Hilfsersuchen des Patriarchen Eraclius vor dem Fall Jerusalems (1187)’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters, 60 (2004), 508–11. 139  Prouteau, ‘Beneath the battle’?’ 105–17. It should be noted that the employment of non-Christian mercenaries was hedged with anxiety for many contemporaries. For a very thorough, if rather late, discussion on contemporaries ethical and theological qualms on recruiting non-Christians see: John of Naples, ‘Should a Christian King use unbelievers to defend his kingdom?’, The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Volume Two: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A. S. McGrade et al. (Cambridge, 2001), 326–48. 140  For discussion on the problems involved in defining a ‘mercenary’, see: S. Morillo, ‘Mercenaries, Mamluks and Militia: towards a cross-cultural typology of military service’, Mercenaries and Paid Men: the Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. J. France (Leiden, 2008), 243–59; K. DeVries, ‘Medieval mercenaries: methodology, definitions, and problems’, Mercenaries and Paid Men: the Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. J. France (Leiden, 2008), 43–60.

146  The Crusader States and their Neighbours tended towards the verdict that they were few in number,141 while some have made a case for a far larger establishment of hireable warriors.142 I tend towards the latter view for several reasons, but most importantly because paid Frankish troops were omnipresent across the Mediterranean and Near East. They were hired by North African rulers,143 the Fatimids,144 the Ayyubids, Armenian lords, the Anatolian Turks,145 the Georgians, and most famously the Byzantines, whose ultra-heavy dependence on Frankish mercenaries requires no introduction.146 Some of these companies could be very large. It is rare to find any exact figures but there were apparently 100 Frankish warriors in the Georgian army which defeated Ilghazi in 1121.147 In 1243 at the battle of Kose Dagh, Ghiyath al-Din, Seljuk Sultan, deployed 2000 Frankish troops led by the Cypriot John of Liminata and the Venetian Bonifacio of Molini.148 Admittedly this latter example falls outside this period, but the idea needs to be taken seriously that the Anatolian Seljuks were mass recruiting Franks even back in the twelfth century. In 1125 the Seljuk governor of Melitene tried to recruit Frankish troops to help him drive off the besieging Danishmendids. A Frankish mercenary company agreed to this proposal but later sent its excuses because it was already engaged besieging Aleppo with Baldwin II.149 During the Second Crusade, the Seljuks also seem to have taken many defeated Crusaders into their service.150 The Ayyubids 141  In 2004 John France took a rather minimalist view towards the presence of mercenaries in the Latin East, writing: ‘I am sure there were some western mercenaries in the East, but I am unconvinced by the idea of numbers on this scale hanging around the street corners of Jerusalem, waiting for paid employment on the off-chance’: J. France, ‘The Crusades and Military History’, Chemins d’Outre-Mer: Études d’histoire sur la Méditerranée médiévale offertes à Michel Balard, ed. Damien  Coulon et al. (2004), 352. In a later article however he is less decided on this question simply registering the presence of mercenaries in the Latin East: France, ‘Crusading warfare’, 58. Edbury says mercenary knights were initially ‘hard to find’ but became more numerous over time: Edbury, ‘Feudal obligations’, 352. 142  The following studies seem to tend towards this view: J. Richard, ‘An Account of the Battle of Hattin referring to the Frankish mercenaries in Oriental Moslem States’, Speculum, 27:2 (1952), 168–77; C. Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders: “pro honoris vel pecunie”; “stipendarii contra paganos”; money and incentives on crusade’, The Practices of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to Sixteenth Centuries (Farnham, 2013), article XIV, 11. Marshall seems to take this view for the thirteenth century, see: Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 85. Smail also seems to think that there were a fair number of mercenaries present but says that references to their presence increase in the later years of the kingdom: Smail, Crusading Warfare, 23, 93–4. Tibble considers that mercenaries became ‘increasingly important’, particularly in the second half of the twelfth century (Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 129). See also: Prawer, The Crusaders’ Kingdom, 328. 143  Richard, ‘An Account of the Battle of Hattin’, 172. 144  See, for example: al-Qalqashandī, Selections from Ṣubḥ al-A’shā by al-Qalqashandī, 146. 145 See for example: MS, 641. For discussion on Christian mercenaries in Muslim service see: M. Lower, ‘Christian mercenaries in Muslim lands: their status in medieval Islamic and Canon law’, The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas, Routledge Worlds (Abingdon, 2016), 419–33. 146  For discussion see: K. Ciggaar, Western Travellers to Constantinople: the West and Byzantium, 962–1204, Cultural and Political Relations, The Medieval Mediterranean X (Leiden, 1996), passim. 147  ME, 227. 148 Marino Sanudo, The Book of Secrets of the Faithful of the Cross: Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis, trans. P. Lock, Crusade Texts in Translation XXI (Farnham, 2011), 375. 149  MS, 641. 150  Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici VII in Orientam: the Journey of Louis VII to the East, ed. V.  Berry (New York, 1948), 140. See also: A.  Bombaci, ‘The army of the Saljuqs of Rūm’, Annali dell’Istituto Orientale di Napoli, 38: 4 (1978), 358–61.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  147 recruited Franks and Saladin entrusted his nephew to a Frankish tutor called John Gale, who was tasked with teaching him to fight like a Frankish knight.151 In some cases Frankish mercenaries clearly sought employment with many different cultures and commanders, even crossing and re-crossing the faith boundary. At the battle of Hattin, King Guy apparently received advice from a Frankish mer­ cen­ary knight who had previously served with Turkish leaders.152 There was even a danger that the armies of the Crusader States might have had to fight against Frankish mercenaries hired by their opponents. In 1138 Pope Innocent II felt compelled to explicitly prohibit Latin troops from serving with the Byzantine Empire against the principality of Antioch.153 In this way, all the protagonists in the Near Eastern wars shared a common enthusiasm for hiring paid Frankish troops. The Crusader States were no exception; quite the reverse, the kingdom of Jerusalem seems to have been a major centre for mercenary recruitment. During the Second Crusade, Conrad III wrote to Abbot Wibald of Corvey from Constantinople, having lost much of his army in Anatolia, claiming that when he reached Jerusalem he would raise a ‘new army’.154 This statement reflects his confidence that troops would be available there for hire in large numbers; Otto of Freising then confirms that this is exactly what he did.155 Indeed, Conrad’s force is said to have become the largest contingent in the allied Christian army—clearly there were a lot of mercenaries for hire.156 Discussing Manuel Comnenus’ activities in c.1160, John Kinnamos reports him despatching John Kontostephanos to the kingdom of Jerusalem specifically to gather mercenaries, as well as armed contingents promised by Baldwin III. John Kontostephanos also went to Rhodes because he knew the island to be a waystation for mercenaries travelling to the Latin East from Western Christendom.157 Likewise, in the mid-1180s agents sent by King William II of Sicily recruited so many mercenaries from Outremer to support his assault on Byzantium that he later worried that he had deprived the Eastern Franks of troops for the Hattin campaign.158 In reality, his fears were probably ill founded. The rise of Andronicus Comnenus apparently caused many Latins warriors in Greek employ to leave the empire in search of new employers, flooding the market in the Eastern Mediterranean (and many took service with the Sicilians). Thus the Latin East may not have been as deprived as he feared; even though this evidence affirms its 151  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 58. 152  Richard, ‘An Account of the Battle of Hattin’, 175. 153  RRR, no. 363; Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, ed. R. Hiestand, Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen (Göttingen, 1985), 169. 154  Latin text: Conrad III, ‘Die Urkunden Konrads III und seines Sohnes Heinrich’, no. 195. 155  Otto of Freising, ‘Gesta Friderici I’, 89. 156  IAA(HA), 159. See also: John of Salisbury, 56–8.    157  JK, 151. 158  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 82. He also seems to have recruited Muslim mercenaries as well, see: Eustathios of Thessaloniki, The Capture of Thessaloniki, trans. J. R. Melville Jones (Canberra, 1988), 137, 22.

148  The Crusader States and their Neighbours status as a centre for mercenary recruitment.159 Other indicators can be seen in Henry II of England’s promise to send sufficient money to support 200 knights in the east in 1172 (following Thomas Becket’s murder) and in the same year Henry of Saxony (then on pilgrimage in Jerusalem) gave money to the Templars and Hospitallers to enable them to pay for mercenaries when needed.160 Likewise, in 1222 Philip II of France made provision in his will to send money to support 300 knights in the east for three years. The fact that that these rulers handed over money without any discussion on despatching actual troops to receive said pay implies an automatic assumption on their part that large numbers of knights would be available for hire if the money was in place.161 Acre’s reputation as a rookery of mercenaries continued well into the thirteenth century and in 1229 the Five Baillies, to whom Emperor Frederick II sold the bailliage of Cyprus at the culmination of his Crusade, recruited heavily from the city’s mer­cen­ar­ies.162 The Ibelins likewise mustered large numbers of mercenaries at short notice in their wars against Frederick II (1229–43).163 Writing his legal work Le Livre de Forme de Plait, Philip of Novara observed that legislation concerning mercenaries is used so frequently that everyone should know it by heart.164 Mercenaries could also help to fill gaps created when landowners could no longer perform military service themselves—sending a mercenary as proxy.165 In these cases at least, so far from viewing the Crusader States as a poorly defended group of states protected by a thin line of settler soldiers, distant rulers were actually sending recruitment agents to the Crusaders States precisely because they knew that mercenaries could be hired there en masse, probably in the major ports such as Acre and Tyre. This in turn builds up to the verdict that the rulers of the Crusader States were themselves dependent in part on paid troops, many but by no means all of Frankish origin. This is not surprising and chimes with contemporary practice in mainland Europe. Norman commanders had long depended on professional, paid military households.166 Likewise, many Western rulers leaned on mercenary captains, and examples range from King Stephen’s captain William of Ypres to Henry II’s much feared Brabançons or Richard I’s Mercadier (who accompanied 159  NC, 164. For the wider movement of Franks from Constantinople to Acre see: D. Jacoby, ‘New Venetian evidence on crusader Acre’, The Experience of Crusading 2: Defining the Crusader kingdom, ed. P. Edbury and J. Phillips (Cambridge, 2003), 251. 160  Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 121. 161  Of course, in both cases, it’s not known if the promises were ever implemented, but the fact that they were ever considered implies a confident expectation that there would be plenty of swords for hire in the east. See: John of Salisbury, The Letters of John of Salisbury, ed. W. Millor and C. Brooke, vol. 2, OMT (Oxford, 1979), no. 309; Layettes du Trésor des Chartes, ed. A. Teulet, vol. 1, Inventaires et Documents (Paris, 1863), no. 1546. 162  Philip of Novara, Guerra di Federico II in Oriente (1223–1242), ed. S. Melani (Naples, 1994), 104. 163 Amadi, The Chronicle of Amadi, trans. N.  Coureas and P.  Edbury, Cyprus Research Centre: Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus LXXIV (Nicosia, 2015), 187. 164  Philip of Novara, Le Livre de Forme de Plait, ed. and trans. P. Edbury, Cyprus Research Centre: Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus LXI (Nicosia, 2009), 320. 165  Philip of Novara, Le Livre de Forme de Plait, 274. 166 Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 37–41.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  149 him on Crusade).167 In the east, Baldwin I is widely known to have relied heavily on paid milites.168 A charter issued in 1158 by Count Amalric of Jaffa and Ascalon (the future Amalric I) listed several groups among the witnesses including ‘hominibus meis’ (my men) and ‘stipendariis meis’ (my paid men); the existence of the latter implying that a substantial proportion of his personal following consisted of paid knights.169 Later authors made similar divisions between ‘home lige’ (liege man) and mercenaries.170 There are likewise many references to the raising of mercenary forces for a broad range of military campaigns as well as mercenaries being employed for garrison duty. For example, when the Damascenes captured the Frankish fortress of Banyas in 1132 they seized the citizens as well as the mer­ cen­ar­ies ‘stipendariis’ standing guard.171 Murray has argued that the money-fiefs offered in the Crusader States from their early years were set up specifically to provide ‘periodic’ payment for paid troops, perhaps modelled on a practice employed in Flanders.172 Visiting Crusaders could likewise supply both knights and their pay, such as in 1191 when Philip II of France gave the Antiochenes 100 knights and 500 infantry along with the means to pay them.173 Edbury has also drawn attention to the events of 1187 when the Templar master handed over monies (sent to the east by Henry II of England) to Guy of Lusignan, thus allowing him to hire more troops. Edbury’s point being that soldiers must have been available to be purchased with these funds.174 The military orders were also major recruiters of paid troops (despite the papacy’s sustained hostility towards swords-for-hire).175 One of the great advantages of mercenary forces was their ability to serve their masters on a permanent—rather than seasonal—basis. Theoretically, knights owing service in the kingdom of Jerusalem could be required to remain on campaign for the full year, but as Edbury has observed, this would have been impossible to implement.176 Other contemporary monarchs in the West likewise preferenced small permanent retinues and Richard I, for example, following his 167  H. Janin and U. Carlson, Mercenaries in Medieval and Renaissance Europe (Jefferson, NC, 2013), 77, 82, 84. 168  Examples: OV, 6, 432; GN, 348–9; AA, 568. 169  Latin text: UKJ, vol. 2, 525–8. For discussion on this document see: France, ‘Crusading warfare’, 58. 170  Examples: Philip of Novara, Le Livre de Forme de Plait, 153, 283. 171  WT, 654. 172  A. Murray, ‘The origin of the money-fiefs in the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem’, Mercenaries and Paid Men: the Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. J. France (Leiden, 2008), 279. 173  Roger of Howden, Chronica, vol. 3, 125. For more detailed discussion on paid crusaders see: Tyerman, ‘Paid Crusaders’, article XIV, 1–40. 174  Edbury, ‘Thoros of Armenia and the kingdom of Jerusalem’, 187. For Edbury’s earlier views on the availability of manpower see: Edbury, ‘Feudal obligations’, 354–5. 175  A. Forey, ‘Paid troops in the Service of Military Orders during the Twelfth and Thirteenth centuries’, The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas (Routledge, 2016), 84–7; Riley-Smith, The Knights Hospitaller, 84–5. 176  Edbury, ‘Feudal obligations’, 335. Perhaps more pragmatically in the principality of the Morea in 1209 military service was set at eight months which probably represents a more realistic (if still very demanding) assessment: The Old French Chronicle of Morea: an Account of Frankish Greece after the Fourth Crusade, trans. A. Van Arsdall and H. Moody, Crusade Texts in Translation XXVIII (Abingdon, 2015), 63.

150  The Crusader States and their Neighbours return from the Crusade, requested that a standing force of 300 knights be raised to support his adventures across the English Channel.177 His request met with heavy resistance but clearly he wanted the tactical flexibility of a permanent force. Similarly, in the Latin East, Frankish rulers often built up strong military households including a large force of milites stipendia. For example, the Antiochene rulers—like their Sicilian and Italian forebears—drew heavily on a large military household.178 Even before the First Crusade, Bohemond is said to have often waged war in Italy supported by his household troops alone179 and, as mentioned above, there are reports of Tancred relying heavily on paid troops in 1105. Roger of Salerno by contrast is said to have maintained remarkably few paid troops, but this observation made by William of Malmesbury is offered in such a way as to suggest that his behaviour deviated sharply from the norm.180 A rather tantalizing reference to paid Antiochene knights can be found in Usama ibn Munqidh’s work where he recalls a conversation with an elderly Antiochene knight who was no longer capable of military service and had therefore been removed from the ‘stipend register’.181 His retirement had clearly cost him his primary income because Usama reports that he now lived off some of his privately owned properties in Antioch; so this was clearly not a knight relying on hereditary landholdings (for which he had previously owed military service). Whether there was such a ‘stipend register’ (the Arabic term is: ‫ ;ديوان‬diwan) and, by extension, what precisely Usama was reporting here is unclear, but it does serve to corroborate the broader idea of a culture of paid soldiery in the principality.182 In later years, with the passing of Norman rule, mercenaries continue to appear in Antiochene history and, following Inab (1149), Patriarch Aimery of Limoges recruited milites stipendia in large numbers and at short notice to protect Antioch itself.183 Buck has likewise shown how Antioch’s princes often waged war supported primarily by their military entourages with only occasional contributions from the ­aristocracy.184 Typically such household troops consisted of high numbers of paid knights. Like Richard I, Antioch’s princes would presumably have been attracted by the flexibility and versatility of such a force. Synthesizing the above, it seems likely that the size of a Frankish army was limited more by a ruler’s purchasing power than by the available pool of fighters; the principle being that if the funds were available, then the troops were avail­able.185 177  Roger of Howden, Chronica, vol. 4, 40. For discussion see: France, Western Warfare, 58. 178  See, for example: Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae et Siciliae Comitis’, Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, ed. E.  Pontieri, vol. 5 pt 1 (Bologna, 1927), 98; Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 37–8. 179  Benoit of Sainte Maure, Three Anglo-Norman Kings: the Lives of William the Conqueror and Sons by Benoît de Sainte-Maure, trans. I. Short (Toronto, 2018), 106. 180  WM, vol. 1, 694.    181  UIM, 153. 182  I am indebted to Paul Cobb for his advice on this point.    183  WT, 773. 184 Buck, Principality of Antioch, 110–23, 247. 185  This chimes with a statement made by Edbury: Edbury, ‘Thoros of Armenia and the kingdom of Jerusalem’, 187.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  151 If a ruler could dispose of truly substantial funds then even mercenaries employed by neighbouring rulers might be persuaded to change their affiliation. William of Poitiers name-checked this principle when explaining Duke William’s magnetism in the late eleventh century writing, ‘foreign knights flocked to help him in great numbers, attracted partly by the well-known liberality of the duke’.186 By extension, it makes logical sense that the rise of wealthy Turkic states on the margins of the Latin East, including the Anatolian Seljuks, Zangids, and Ayyubids would have created substantial recruitment problems for the Crusader States. These polities’ considerable purchasing power and their willingness to enrol Franks en bloc would presumably have created a sellers’ market for good quality mercenaries, boosting prices and only making it more difficult for the Franks to raise such troops. This in turn might explain in part why Baldwin IV and Guy had such trouble raising sufficient funds for their armies. It might also explain the thinking behind the kingdom of Jerusalem’s legal penalty made against mer­cen­ar­ies who had served with non-Christians for more than a year-and-a day, prohibiting them from acting as witnesses in court against fellow Franks.187 It would of course be helpful to get some idea of the relative levels of remuneration offered by different rulers. Unfortunately, it is rare to find evidence on Muslim rulers’ pay scales for Frankish mercenaries. A rare—if late—example however can be found in the report written by Simon of St Quentin describing his embassage to the Mongol leader Baiju in the 1240s during which he travelled through Anatolia. He claimed that the Seljuk sultan could support all his troops at a rate of 1000 bezants per annum.188 This would have been a very top-end income for a landed Frankish knight in the Crusader States where incomes typically ranged from c.300–1000 bezants during the thirteenth century.189 So how did the limited Frankish population in the east affect its military power? As shown above, Outremer lacked money (at least relative to their wealthy Turkish/Fatimid neighbours), not troops, but this is not to say that their small settler population was irrelevant to the calculus of Frankish military power. The biggest problem posed by the small size of the Frankish community was the irreplaceability of their armies—whether composed from troops supported by pay, land grants, or anything else. In the event of a major defeat, the surviving leaders of a Crusader state would suddenly need to assemble a new army to fend off their 186  Translation: William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, 103. 187  Philip of Novara, Le Livre de Forme de Plait, 236. Although note that attitudes towards Christian mercenaries serving Muslim rulers could be rather more favourable in fictional/quasi-fictional tales, see: U.Z. Shachar, ‘ “Re-orienting” Estoires d’Outremer: the Arabic context of the Saladin Legend’, The French of Outremer: Communities and Communications in the Crusading Mediterranean, ed. L. Morreale and N. Paul (New York, 2018), 166. For an overview on the Church’s stance see: Lower, ‘Christian mercenaries’, 425–31. 188  Simon of St Quentin, Histoire des Tartares, ed. J.  Richard, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des Croisades VIII (Paris, 1965), 69. For further discussion on the pay rates offered by Franks and Muslim rulers in the Near East see: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 3, paras 28–42 (online edition). 189 Riley-Smith, Feudal Nobility, 10.

152  The Crusader States and their Neighbours advancing enemy (a problem only exacerbated by the limited territory controlled by the Eastern Franks). This was not easy and the difficulties encountered in 1104 (following Harran), 1119 (following the Field of Blood), and 1187 (following Hattin), when rulers struggled to muster a second line of defence reflect this problem. They could call upon mercenaries but this would take time and, viewed from the risk/reward perspective, mercenaries would have had strong motive to decline service with a collapsing state. What was needed was a settler population large enough to marshal sufficient forces to drive away an aggressor in the event of a major battlefield reverse. The Crusader States never possessed this kind of manpower and this deficiency goes some way to explaining their major territorial loses following the abovementioned defeats. To this extent at least, limited manpower reserves were a major problem. This kind of issue is addressed by Ernoul when describing a possibly fictional visit to Jerusalem by the king of Armenia in the early-mid 1160s. The king recommended that the Franks accept the settlement of 30,000 Armenians within their lands so as to establish a loyal populace but also to enable the king of Jerusalem to hold some fighters in reserve. In this story, the stated advantage of this population reserve was that it could offer assistance in the case of a victory, but of course it would also have provided a useful buffer in the case of a defeat.190 This settlement never took place, but Edbury had plausibly argued that the episode was probably intended as a ‘critique’ of the kingdom’s defensive weaknesses.191 Overall, the Crusader States did not generally lack troops. Indeed, external ­rulers sent agents to the Crusader States because they knew that surplus troops were available there to hire. The main limitation constricting the Crusader States and their armies was money. An illuminating example of this can be found in Caffaro’s history when reporting Amalric’s visit to Emperor Manuel Comnenus. During this trip, Manuel showed Amalric a vast haul of wealth and asked him what he would do with it. Amalric replied that: ‘he would conquer and bring under his control all the land within his region which was occupied by the Saracens’.192 Of course we know in hindsight that this money did not enable Amalric to conquer the Near East, but this account bears testimony to fact that money was the pressing need for rulers such as Amalric; if the money was available then the troops would follow. Hiring mercenaries in large numbers was expensive and Frankish rulers may well have found themselves competing with Muslim, Greek, and other Frankish states when recruiting their armies. Mercenaries were not—of course—the only troops available to the Crusader States and their rulers went to considerable 190  Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, L. de Mas Latrie (Paris, 1871), 29. 191  Edbury, ‘Thoros of Armenia and the Kingdom of Jerusalem’, 186. 192 Translation: Caffaro, Genoa and the Twelfth-Century Crusades, trans. M.  Hall and J.  Phillips, Crusade Texts in Translation (Abingdon, 2013), 156. Latin text: Caffaro, ‘Regni Iherosolymitani brevis historia’, Annali Genovesi di Caffaro e de’suoi continuatori, ed. L.T. Belgrano, Fonti Storia d’Italia XI (Rome, 1890), 134.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  153 lengths to encourage warriors to settle in the east, who would draw their income from the land or from privileges, rather than from the king’s treasury. The military orders and pilgrim knights would also have made a useful contribution, although they had their problems as well (the military orders had a tendency to act on their own initiative and pilgrim knights were necessarily short-term). It has to be stressed, however, that as shown above mercenaries had their advantages too. The result was that the Crusader States could—at ruinous cost—assemble large and well-trained armies; this was their strength. They were far less efficient, however, when confronted with the need to replace a large army following a major defeat. The pools of available manpower open to the Crusader States may have been varied but they shared the common flaw that they took time to replenish.

The Size of Armies Another claim often linked to the ‘manpower deficit’ argument concerns the smallness of the Eastern Frankish armies. Typically we are told about vastly outnumbered Frankish forces pitting themselves against enormous Turkish and Fatimid armies, seeking thereby to ‘box’ well above their weight category. True, their forces were often—but not always—numerically inferior to their foes but, as several historians have recently observed, Frankish rulers could still muster some of the largest armies raised anywhere in Christendom. These include: forces raised by combining the Crusader States’ armies (such as at Shaizar in 1111), or those supplemented by crusading forces (such as for the Damascus campaign of 1129), or those raised to fight Saladin in the 1180s. On the latter occasion the Franks managed a total force of roughly 20,000 troops. As France points out, by the standards of mainland Christendom, this was a colossal army, substantially larger, for example, than Otto IV of Germany’s army at Bouvines in 1214.193 One might add that Anglo-Norman armies of the late eleventh–early twelfth centuries are estimated by Morillo to have been about 300–3000 strong (with William I’s army at Hastings being unusually large at between 5000–7000). In Iberia, the huge crusading army which won the famous battle of Las Navas de Tolosa (1212) is thought to have numbered around 12,000.194 The sheer size of the Jerusalemite army relative to those in Western Christendom is worthy of attention for a number of reasons. To begin, as is well known, the Crusader States occupied a relatively small geographical footprint—the Eracles continuation of William of Tyre’s chronicle comments that the kingdom of 193  France, ‘The Crusades and Military History’, 352; France, Western Warfare, 221. See also: Tibble, Crusader Armies, 48. 194 S. Morillo, Warfare under the Anglo-Norman Kings, 1066–1135 (Woodbridge, 1994), 58; F. García Fitz et al., ‘Castile and Leon: Early and High Middle Ages (8th to 13th Centuries)’, War in the Iberian Peninsula, 700–1600, ed. F. García Fitz and J. Gouveia Monteiro (Abingdon, 2018), 87.

154  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Jerusalem was so small it should really be called a ‘barony’.195 The total Frankish population was equally slight (estimated at 120–140,000).196 Like Hamilton, I suspect that this estimate is probably rather ‘conservative’, but even if the population was as high as 300,000 the Frankish army at Hattin on its own still represented a substantial chunk of the total population (even if allowance is made for nonFrankish contingents within the host).197 This then implies a very high soldier to settler ratio, which in turn demonstrates the considerable purchasing power of the Crusader States. The fact that such large forces could be raised on so narrow a population base (John France has estimated the broader non-Frankish population in the kingdom of Jerusalem at around 500,000) is remarkable; well beyond the capabilities of most agrarian societies in Western Christendom.198 Major revenue streams are necessary to explain armies of this size. Perhaps the most obvious sources of income would have been the large ports and their ability to profit from short and long-distance trade routes as well as products created within their walls. The scale of the commerce passing through their gates/harbours is difficult to gauge and requires more research. There are however a few indicators. For example, in February 1138 the Antiochenes are said to have arrested around 500 Muslim traders in Antioch and the principality’s coastal townlands. Given that these were solely Muslim traders and this number presumably does not include: Frankish, Eastern Christian, and Jewish merchants, the total number of  people engaged in the Aleppo–Antioch coastal trade must have been truly enormous.199 Another rather later clue is the comment made by the returning Crusader Richard, earl of Cornwall (present in the east from 1239–40), that Acre alone provided its lord with an income of 50,000 pounds of silver p.a.200 This was more than the annual revenue of the king of England.201 Naturally, Acre in the twelfth century was smaller and therefore its income would have been rather more modest, but even in this period Abu Shama still described it as the ‘Constantinople of the Franks’.202 Other large-scale sources of local income included the export of sugar and cotton203 as well as other agricultural products 195  Handyside, ‘L’Estoire d’Eracles in Outremer’, 71. 196  This estimate, like all estimates of the kingdom’s Frankish population, can only be described as ‘mere speculations lacking a sound documentary basis’ as Jacoby observes, but in the absence of direct evidence, the best guesses offered by historians long immersed in the sources represent our only option. Quotation: D.  Jacoby, ‘The economic function of the Crusader States of the Levant: a new approach’, Europe’s Economic Relations with the Islamic World 13th–18th Centuries, ed. S. Cavaciocchi (Florence, 2007), 169. For discussion on these and similar numbers see: Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement, 31. 197 Hamilton, Leper King, 47. 198 France, Western Warfare, 214; J. France, ‘Technology and the success of the First Crusade’, War & Society in the Eastern Mediterranean, 7th–15th Centuries, ed. Y. Lev, The Medieval Mediterranean IX (Leiden, 1996), 163. 199 IQ, 246.   200  Matthew Paris, ‘Itinéraire de Londres a Jérusalem’, 137. 201 Riley-Smith, Feudal Nobility, 64. 202  French Translation: Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol 4, 210. 203  Jacoby, ‘Economic function’, 170.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  155 from the expanding plantations on the coastal plain, tolls levied on merchants passing through Transjordan, and the wealth poured into the Crusader States by the military orders. The relative or true value of any of these income streams is naturally unknowable, but the fact remains that they enabled the Crusader States to maintain a substantially larger army than their slender territories and population might suggest (and this is before we add in the costs shouldered by the Eastern Franks in their other projects such as their gargantuan building programmes including: castles, churches, city defences, monasteries, etc.).204 The Crusader States may have been rich, but as shown above, their rulers’ substantial incomes were still only barely sufficient to raise armies big enough to fight the major Turkic armies (and, as shown above, despite their wealth they frequently complained about a lack of ready cash). This then is the peculiarity of the Crusader States: by Western European standards they were rich and powerful, but by Near Eastern Standards, their status as a first-rate power was—financially—only just tenable. Whether this imbalance indicates that Turkish leaders were richer than the Franks—in terms of total annual income—or whether their Turkmen rank-and-file troops were simply cheaper than their Frankish equivalents— thereby enabling large armies to be raised at a lower cost—requires more research. Either way, the Franks struggled to afford armies of the size assembled by their foes. An indicator of their need for cash relative to their neighbours can be seen in the fact that while the Franks were permanently demanding tribute or one-off payments in their diplomacy, they hardly ever offered (or were asked) to pay it. Clearly it was known that they were the ones who needed money. The growth of the Crusader States’ armies then is a complex equation based on many factors, not simply the availability of troops. The wealth available to the Frankish rulers was also important and so too was the level of pay demanded by their soldiers. Unfortunately little concrete information is available on any of these points. Our primary guide for the changing size of Frankish armies is therefore the data supplied in contemporary sources for the actual forces deployed by the Crusader States. Table 5.2 lists all plausible estimates—or reasonably so—offered by contemporaries for the kingdom of Jerusalem’s armies during this period. The figures supplied in Table 5.2 primarily capture three types of army. Firstly, there are the kingdom’s primary field armies designed to wage war along their own borders. Secondly, there are the allied armies, combining forces from several Crusader States, often raised to assault a specific city or stronghold. Finally, there are the relief forces despatched to assist the northern states. These last were substantially smaller, normally containing around 200–500 knights, sometimes with an infantry contingent. Such small and mobile forces presumably reflect the need 204 For a helpful discussion on the funds necessary to build a church in the Latin East see: V. Shotten-Hallel and R. Kool, ‘What does it take and exactly how much? Building a church in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Twelfth Century’, Crusader Landscapes in the Medieval Levant: the Archaeology and History of the Latin East, ed. M. Sinibaldi et al. (Cardiff, 2016), 289–304.

156  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 5.2  Armies raised by the kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187) Year/Event

Details

Source

Battle of Ascalon (1099)

20,000 Christians (Albert of Aachen)205 1200 cavalry and 9000 infantry (William of Tyre and Raymond of Aguilers) 5000 horsemen and 15,000 infantry (Frutolf of Michelsberg) 3000 troops (Albert of Aachen) 200 troops (Ralph of Caen) 300 knights and 2000 infantry (William of Tyre) 300 knights 300 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres) 250 cavalry and less than 700 infantry (William of Malmesbury) 260 knights and 900 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 300 knights and 1000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 1000 cavalry and 10,000 infantry (al-Maqrizi, Ibn Muyassar and Ibn al-Qalanisi)206 1000 knights and 7000 infantry (The 1106 continuation of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle) 200 knights (Fulcher of Chartres, William of Tyre) 700 cavalry and infantry (Ibn al-Qalanisi)

AA, 468 WT, 434; RA, 156

Siege of Arsuf (1099) Military population under Godfrey of Bouillon Military population in 1101 Battle of Ramla (1101)

Battle of Ramla (1102)

Siege of Acre (1103) Ramla (1105)

Army muster at Jaffa (1106) Skirmish near Tiberias (1108) Siege of Sidon (1108)

700 knights (Albert of Aachen) 5000 troops (Albert of Aachen) 6000 troops in total, including 160 cavalry (Albert of Aachen) 500 knights as well as other cavalry supported by 2000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 1300 cavalry and 8000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir and al-Maqrizi)207 4000 troops in total (The 1106 continuation of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s chronicle) 500 cavalry and 6000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 400 knights and 2000 infantry (Ibn al-Athir) 500 cavalry and 4000 infantry (Albert of Aachen)

FE, 116 AA, 486 RC, 117 WT, 445 FC, 389 WM, vol. 1, 678 FC, 409; WT, 473 AA, 576

FE, 174 FC, 440; WT, 476 IQ, 55; IAA(C), vol. 1, 61 AA, 640 AA, 660 AA, 708 FC, 496; WT, 498 . FE, 422 AA, 734 IAA(C), vol. 1, 142 AA, 764

205  AA, 468. Although note that slightly earlier Albert supplies figures, seemingly for Godfrey’s contingent, of 2000 cavarly and 3000 infantry (AA, 462). 206  M. Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 36; IQ, 53; IM, 464. 207  IAA(C), vol. 1, 93; Brett, ‘The battles of Ramla (1099–1105)’, 37.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  157 Siege of Tripoli (1109) Relief force sent to Edessa (1110) Siege of Shaizar (1111) Siege of Tyre (1112) Tiberias (1113)

Army sent to the north (1115) Army sent to construct Monreal (1115) Egyptian campaign (1118) Army muster at Bethsan (1119) Second Battle of Tell Danith (1119) Campaign against Ilghazi (1120) Relief of Zardana (1122) Battle at Ibelin (1123) Second battle of Azaz (1125) Crusade against Damascus (1129) The Barin campaign (1137) Relief army sent to Antioch (1149) Evacuation of Tell Bashir (1150) Battle of ‘Ain al-Mallāha (1157) Battle of al-Balbein (1167)

500 cavalry and 500 infantry—kingdom of Jerusalem only (Albert of Aachen) 600 cavalry and 300 infantry—kingdom of Jerusalem only (Albert of Aachen) Combined Christian army—16,000 cavalry and infantry (Albert of Aachen) 10,000 troops (Albert of Aachen) 700 cavalry and 4000 infantry—kingdom of Jerusalem only (Albert of Aachen) 16,000 troops—the combined Frankish army soon afterwards (Albert of Aachen) 2000 infantry and cavalry (Bar Hebraeus) 500 knights and 1000 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 200 cavalry and 400 infantry (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 782

216 knights and 400 infantry (Albert of Aachen) 6000 troops (Albert of Aachen)

AA, 862

700 knights and infantry (William of Tyre and Fulcher of Chartres) 1000 cavalry and infantry (Kamal al-Din)

WT, 561; FC, 627

300 cavalry and 400 infantry and later 1200 cavalry as well as infantry (Fulcher of Chartres) 7000 troops in total (William of Tyre) 8000 troops in total (Fulcher of Chartres) 1300 Frankish cavalry, 500 Armenian cavalry, 4000 infantry (Matthew of Edessa) 1100 knights and 2000 infantry (Fulcher of Chartres and William of Tyre) 2000 knights and infantry (Ibn al-Athir)

FC, 650

6000 troops (Orderic Vitalis)

OV, vol. 6, 497

120 knights and 1000 sergeants and squires (Andrew of Montbard, letter to the Templar master) 500 knights (William of Tyre)

‘Epistola A. Dapiferi Militiae Templi’, 540 WT, 783

600 knights killed including Templars208 87 Templar knights taken captive as well as the Templar master and also 300 other knights either killed or captured.209 374 knights + Egyptian forces (William of Tyre)

AA, 792 AA, 816 AA, 828 AA, 840, 842

BH, vol. 1, 245 AA, 854 AA, 856

AA, 878

KAD, 624

WT, 572–3 FC, 667 ME, 235 WT, 605; FC, 769 IAA(C), vol. 1, 278

WT, 898 Continued

208  ‘Auctarium Affligenmense’, MGH S, ed. G. Pertz, vol. 6 (Hanover, 1844), 403. 209  ‘Epistolae Adriani IV papae’, Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la France, vol. 15 (Paris, 1878), 681–2.

158  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 5.2  Continued Year/Event

Details

Source

Siege of Alexandria (1167) Relief of Darum (1170) Battle of Montgisard (1177) Jacob’s Ford campaign (1179) La Forbelet campaign (1182) 1183 campaign

500 knights and 4–5000 infantry (William of Tyre) 250 knights and 2000 infantry (William of Tyre) 375 knights and infantry (William of Tyre) 7000 Christians (Sicard of Cremona)210 1000 cavalry and 10,000 infantry (al-Maqrizi) More than 10,000 troops (Abu Shama)211 700 knights and infantry (William of Tyre)

WT, 908

1300 knights and 15,000 infantry (William of Tyre) 1500 knights, 1500 turcopoles and 15,000 infantry (Imad al-Din)212 30,000 troops (letter to Archimbald, Hospitaller Italian master)213 1200 knights, turcopoles and 18,000 infantry (De Expugnatione Terrae Sanctae)214 1000 knights, 4000 turcopoles, 25,000 infantry (Caffaro)215 1200 knights and 30,000 other troops—later more than 40,000 troops (The Old French Continuation of William of Tyre)216 1200 knights and 30,000 infantry (Letter by Aimery of Limoges, patriarch of Antioch)217 More than 20,000 milites (Itinerarium Peregrinorum)

WT, 1053

Hattin campaign (1187)

WT, 937 WT, 990 AM, 60 WT, 1031

IP, 16

to reach Antioch or Edessa quickly coupled with the increased costs involved in fighting long-range campaigns. Focusing on the first two of these categories, the surviving sources supply many figures for the major armies raised by the kingdom of Jerusalem along with coalition forces raised in conjunction with the other Frankish states. As shown above, there could at times be considerable disagreement among writers about 210  Sicard of Cremona, ‘Cronica’, MGH S, ed. O. Holder-Egger, vol. 31 (Hanover, 1903), 168. 211  Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol 4, 200. 212  Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol 4, 245. 213  Ansbert, ‘Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris’, MGH SRGNS, ed. A.  Chroust, vol. 5 (Berlin, 1928), 2. 214  The Conquest of the Holy Land by Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn: a Critical Edition and Translation of the Anonymous Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, ed. and trans. K.  Brewer and J. Kane, Crusade Texts in Translation (London, 2019), 134. 215  Caffaro, ‘Regni Iherosolymitani brevis historia’, 139. 216  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 43–4.   217  Roger of Howden, Chronica, vol. 2, 341.

The Rise of Nur al-Din  159 the size of the kingdom’s various armies. Estimates of Baldwin I’s army at Ramla range from 2500 troops (Fulcher of Chartres) to 9300 (al-Maqrizi). Likewise, Albert of Aachen’s estimates tend to come out rather high when compared to often better informed writers such as Fulcher of Chartres and Ibn al-Qalanisi. Even so, taken overall, there is also a lot of consistency. Between the period c.1105 and c.1182 there were many occasions when the kingdom raised armies numbering between 4000–8000 troops. Those instances where chroniclers supply figures only for the knightly contingent (often 700 strong) should probably be viewed as bearing out this kind of army size given that it is necessary to envision a much larger infantry and light cavalry component supporting the main knightly force. This being the case, the above sources—taken together—imply several thoughtprovoking patterns. Looking at the kingdom’s early armies, for example, it is not­ able that the kingdom was able to raise and deploy substantial armies numbering around 4–6000, possibly as early as 1105 but definitely by 1110. Given (a) that the kingdom was almost permanently at war during this period, suffering heavy casualties on an annual basis, and (b) that it could not call upon a large and warlike native Christian population like the Frankish states in the north, the kingdom’s ability to raise such forces—comparable to many armies in mainland Christendom— is very suggestive. Such numbers could not have been deployed without substantial and sustained migration to the Crusader States during this period, probably involving the arrival of thousands of warriors, pilgrims, families, and settlers, and mercenaries on an annual basis. Frequently, historians describing the early history of the kingdom have drawn upon Fulcher’s claim that the kingdom possessed only 200–300 knights in its early years (see Table 5.2). For the first couple of years this may have been true, but clearly the Frankish population grew quickly.218 This point calls to mind some of the observations made by pilgrims to the Crusader states, such as Saewulf ’s claim that when he arrived in 1102, he saw thirty big ships in the port of Jaffa.219 Somewhat later the German pilgrim Theoderic reported thirty large ships (naves) as well as lighter vessels when he arrived in Acre.220 Large transport vessels such as naves and dromons could each carry several hundred passengers and we should probably envisage a consistent traffic of such vessels bringing new settlers to the east on a regular basis throughout the sailing season. Some idea of the size and carrying capacity of these vessels is given in the surviving texts and, to take a few examples: Saewulf boarded a dromon on his return journey which contained 200 men capable of fighting as well as other passengers; Albert of Aachen mentions a dromon in 1103 carrying 500 men on board as well as women, while some really large ships could apparently carry up 218  For an alternative perspective see: Nader, Burgesses and Burgess Law, 4, 24. 219 ‘Saewulf ’, Peregrinatores tres, ed. R.b.c Huygens, CCCM CXXXIX (Turnhout, 1994), 63. 220 ‘Theodoricus’, Peregrinatores tres, ed. R.B.C Huygens, CCCM CXXXIX (Turnhout, 1994), 186.

160  The Crusader States and their Neighbours to 1500 passengers.221 Certainly, it is hard to imagine how such large armies could have been raised on an annual basis without a steady tide of Frankish migration. Notably in 1113 there is a reference to several naval squadrons arriving in short succession cumulatively carrying—apparently—16,000 people—and this was at a time when there was no formal Crusade underway.222 The next remarkable feature of these above figures is that the kingdom of Jerusalem’s army seems to have remained broadly similar in size for much of this period. Putting to one side some of the large allied or crusading forces, it is not­ able that the kingdom of Jerusalem was deploying armies of roughly 4000–8000 troops (or 500–700 knights) from the kingdom’s first years all the way up to the early 1180s. Given that the kingdom grew substantially during this time, enjoying a rising income through the development of trade, the conquest of maritime cities and internal settlement, it is notable that there is little suggestion that the kingdom’s armies grew in correlation with its expanding revenues. Instead the ­kingdom in the 1170s is depicted deploying armies of roughly the same size that it had sixty years previously. There are several interpretations which could explain this pattern. It is possible, for example, that the cost of recruiting troops—­ especially mercenaries—may have risen during this period. As mentioned above, the lack of data makes this difficult to prove but given that so many powers— Sicilian, Byzantine, Ayyubid, Anatolian, Seljuk, etc.—are known to have recruited Frankish mercenaries this may have led to wage inflation and the creation of a sellers’ market. Another possibility is that the nature of the roads, terrain, and the size of their opponents’ forces cumulatively militated towards raising armies of around this size. Feeding huge armies was difficult and very expensive, while the thought of large forces ponderously strung out for miles over narrow roads may have steered commanders to prefer more manageable forces. These explanations are speculative, but the stability of the kingdom’s army size when compared against its growing revenue warrants some explanation. Another notable factor is that in the mid-1180s the kingdom’s army suddenly grew dramatically in size. Where in the 1160s Amalric had deemed it possible to fight his 1167 Egyptian campaign with only a few thousand troops, by 1183 the kingdom was raising armies around 18,000 strong.223 The financial agonies involved 221  Saewulf, 76; AA, 666. A ship carrying 1500 passengers was shipwrecked off Damietta in 1182—this figure is supplied by William of Tyre but it is broadly corroborated by al-Maqrizi who says that 1690 people were saved from the sinking ship, not counting those who drowned: WT, 1026; AM, 69. 222  AA, 842. 223  Several historians have concluded that the Franks’ armies of this era were around this size, although most estimates focus on the battle of Hattin. Tibble and Baldwin believe the army at Hattin was around 20,000 (Tibble, Crusader Armies, 48; M.  Baldwin, ‘The decline and fall of Jerusalem, 1174–1189’, A History of the Crusades, Volume 1: the First Hundred Years, ed. M. Baldwin (Madison, 1969), 609). John France suggests a total force of 20,000 in his article ‘Crusading warfare’ (57) and Murray seems to follow this estimate (Murray, ‘The origin of the money-fiefs’, 277), but later France has opted for the slightly lower figure of around 18,000 (J. France, “Crusading warfare in the twelfth

The Rise of Nur al-Din  161 in raising hosts of this size in the mid-1180s are well known, recorded eloquently by William of Tyre and mentioned above, but the scale of the es­cal­ation this involved comes into stark relief when it is considered that back in 1170 King Amalric felt it sufficient to confront Saladin’s main army with only 250 knights and 2000 infantry (an army eight times smaller than the 1183 force). The cause of this sudden expansion in army size during the intervening period was doubtlessly the rapid growth of Ayyubid armies as a result of Saladin’s expanding empire. Returning to the 1170 campaign, William of Tyre stresses the sheer extent to which Amalric’s small army was outnumbered.224 The era when war could be fought with only a couple of thousand troops was over. William makes a similar point describing the 1182 campaign when 700 Frankish knights (+ infantry) defied an Ayyubid army estimated at 20,000. On this occasion, Saladin had the numbers to entirely encircle the Christian army, even if he was subsequently driven back. It is even possible that it was this campaign which spurred the kingdom’s decision-makers to raise substantially larger armies in later years.225 These points demonstrate how fast the balance of power was shifting in the Near East. As will be shown below, Saladin’s success in conquering: Egypt, Damascus, Yemen, the Jazira, and much of southern Mesopotamia, as well as Aleppo enabled him to raise very large and well-equipped armies. Perhaps the most crucial moment in this development was Saladin’s conquest of Damascus in 1174. By this stage, he already possessed Egypt with its enormous financial resources, but by taking Damascus Saladin also gained access to the large Turkic communities of Syria and the Jazira. The combination of Egyptian money and Syrian manpower represents the critical factor underpinning Saladin’s military might and should probably be considered as a crucial turning point in the military history of this period.226 Its impact can be measured by the Franks’ willingness to undergo considerable financial duress in their endeavour to match Saladin’s ever-growing military. Another conclusion suggested by the above data is that for much of the earlier period (before the late 1170s) the kingdom of Jerusalem was raising and fighting with armies that did not come even close to its maximum military potential. Their ability to scale up their forces from just a few thousand to almost 20,000 in a very short space of time in the 1180s implies that they had formerly possessed the capacity to raise big armies but had preferred to wage war with smaller forces. Again, such observation erodes the classic characterization of the Franks’ struggling to raise armies big enough to fight their foes (at least for this earlier period). century’, in The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas, Routledge Worlds (2016), 75. In his Great Battles: Hattin, France gave the Frankish force as consisting of 1200 knights, 4000 light cavalry and 15,000 foot Great Battles: Hattin (Oxford, 2015), 81). Prawer likewise suggests there were no fewer than 1200 knights and 15–18,000 footsoldiers: Prawer, Crusader Institutions, 487. 224 WT, 939–40.   225  WT, 1031–2. 226  See William of Tyre’s comments on this point: WT, 924.

162  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Changing ground, it is worth observing that the big Jerusalemite armies of 1183 and 1187 were not the largest forces ever raised by the Crusader States. Back in 1129 Ibn al-Athir claims that the kingdom mustered 2000 knights along with other soldiers for its campaign against Damascus. This implies a force larger than those raised in either 1183 (1300 knights) or 1187 (1200 knights). Given that the allied Frankish army in 1129 included contingents from all the Crusader States as well as a substantial crusading cohort, his figures demand to be taken seriously. Likewise, at other co-operative ventures such as the siege of Shaizar (1111), the siege Tyre (1112), and the Tiberias campaign of 1113, the Crusader States cumulatively managed to muster—if Albert of Aachen is to be believed—armies of up to 16,000 troops. It seems then that the Crusader states could raise large five-figure armies even during their early years, when they worked together.  

6

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin Kurdish Involvement in the Wars of the Near East 1099–1187 Despite the many biographies and studies written on Saladin, there is an aspect to his character that has received only limited attention. This is the potential tension between (1) his background and ethnic origin as the son of a Kurdish mercenary, and (2) his aspiration to rule the Turkish-held lands of the Near East. Saladin himself was the son of Ayyub, a Kurdish warrior from Tiflis who had joined Seljuk service and later rose to become governor of Tikrit in Iraq. Ayyub and his brother Shirkuh subsequently joined Zangi’s service in 1138. They fared well and Ayyub was appointed as governor of Baalbek. Following Zangi’s death in 1146, Shirkuh swiftly moved to join Nur al-Din and Ayyub did so too a little later in 1154. From this point onwards Shirkuh rose to become one of Nur al-Din’s most trusted commanders and he is best known for leading the Egyptian campaigns in the 1160s which ultimately led to the overthrow of the Fatimid dynasty. Saladin, by this time a young man, served under his uncle.1 The fact that the Zangids were prepared to employed Kurdish mercenaries like Ayyub and Shirkuh is not surprising.2 The Turks had long made use of levies drawn from the peoples under their control—in fact the famous Seljuk vizier Nizam al-Mulk (d. 1092) recommended this approach.3 Other rulers made use of Kurdish troops, notably the Banu Munqidhs of Shaizar, and Usama ibn Munqidh’s work contains many references to Kurdish warriors fighting both for his own family and their Turkish neighbours.4 The Kurds themselves had a reputation as effective fighters and are reported as such in Frankish and Byzantine texts.5 Even so, these examples of interaction should not obscure the fact that the Kurds and the Turks had an exceptionally complex and often hostile relationship. Back in the early Eleventh century various Kurdish tribes had controlled a large territorial zone near to Mosul, encompassing large parts of the Eastern Jazira and the Diyar Bakr. Their leading dynasty was the Marwanids, who rose to 1  Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 2–7. 2 For Zangid recruitment of Kurdish troops see: A.-M.  Eddé, ‘Kurdes et Turcs dans l’armée Ayyoubide de Syrie du Nord’, War & Society in the Eastern Mediterranean, 7th–15th Centuries, ed. Y. Lev, The Medieval Mediterranean IX (Leiden, 1996), 226. 3  Nizam al-Mulk, The Book of Government, 100.   4  UIM, 108–9, 128, 133. 5  The Taktika of Leo VI, 447; Kedar, ‘A western survey of Saladin’s forces’, 117, 122. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

164  The Crusader States and their Neighbours prominence in the Diyar Bakr in the late tenth century. The Turks arrived in the 1030s when Turkmen tribes, migrating west, began to expand into Azerbaijan and ultimately into Kurdish territory around Mosul. In 1037 the Kurds united and drove away these Turkmen tribes, but they came under pressure from later attacks and even more so from the Seljuks who arrived soon after.6 In the face of overwhelming Turkish opposition, several Kurdish tribes attempted to do deals with the incoming Turks while others attempted to form local coalitions strong enough to drive them out.7 By the late 1040s the Seljuks managed to make use of divisions among the Kurds to impose direct control and slowly the Kurds found it necessary to negotiate a new position for themselves under Turkish hegemony. A crucial moment in this process occurred in 1049–50 when Sultan Tughril demanded and secured both the submission of the Marwanid Kurds and the establishment of the khutbah in his name throughout their lands.8 In 1050s the Marwanid Kurds supported the Seljuks in some of their ex­ped­ itions against Byzantium while other Kurdish tribes resisted the Turks, and others fought amongst themselves (or with other local factions). In 1064, following the death of the sultan Tughril Beg, his successor Alp Arslan brutally suppressed the Kurds on his journey north to fight the Byzantines, giving their lands to Amir Beg Arslan.9 Kurdish groups later supported the Banu Uqayl in their attempt to ally with the Fatimids against the Turks by besieging Damascus in 1083.10 The following year Malik Shah’s commander Fakhr al-Dawla campaigned against the Marwanids in the Diyar Bakr, batting aside the Uqaylid attempts to render as­sist­ ance to their Kurdish neighbours.11 In 1093 the last vestiges of Kurdish authority in the Diyar Bakr were swept away by Malik Shah’s brother Tutush.12 By the time of the First Crusade then, the Kurds had endured the rise of Turkish authority for many decades. Unlike the Arabs and the Armenians there are only hints of Kurdish uprisings in the wake of the crushing defeats suffered by the Turks at the hands of the First Crusade, but then their lands were located far to the east of the Crusaders’ route (there are rumours of a Kurdish rebellion near Mardin but it is not clear if it was connected in any way).13 Kurdish forces are listed among the myriad of peoples who sent auxilliaries to support Karbugha in his attempt to retake Antioch but it seems possible that they would have been only reluctant allies.14 The Kurds were still very much under Turkish dominion and, as an example of this, Baldric of Bourgueil reports that a Crusader raiding 6  BH, vol. 1, 198.    7  See for example the events of 1041–2: IAA(AST), 20. 8  IAA(AST), 73. 9  The History of the Seljuq State: a Translation with Commentary of the Akhbār al-dawla al-saljūquiyya, trans. c. e. Bosworth, Routledge Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey (Abingdon, 2011), 29; The History of the Seljuq Turks from the Jamiʿ al-Tawārīkh: an Ilkhanid Adaptation of the Saljūq-nāma of Ẓahir al-Dīn Nīshāpūrī, ed. c. e. Bosworth and trans. K.  A.  Luther, Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey (Richmond, 2001), 48. 10 IAA(AST), 208.   11 IAA(AST), 213.   12  IAA(AST), 267. 13  IAA(C), vol. 1, 91.    14  GF, 49.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  165 party attacked a troop of Turkish warriors that was driving a group of Kurdish and Arab slaves to Tripoli.15 Throughout the twelfth century, the Turks continued to prey upon Kurdish communities and in 1101–2 there are reports of Turkmen raiders attacking Kurdish groups near Irbil because the Kurds had been attempting to prevent the Turkmen from grazing on their lands.16 The Turkish governors of Mosul proved especially vigorous in their attempts to suppress the Kurds and there are reports of attacks on their communities by Jokermish in 1102, by Juyush Beg in 1115–16, by Zangi in 1134, 1143, 1145, and 1146, and by Sayf al-Din in c.1170.17 The violence was not always one-sided. To take one example, Zangi’s attack in 1134 on the Humaydiyya Kurds was driven by the support they had shown to Caliph ­al-Mustarshid (against Zangi) during his siege of Mosul in 1133. Prior to this he seems to have been content to allow them to remain undisturbed.18 Accounts of Turkmen pressure on Kurdish grazing lands re-occur throughout the early twelfth century. There are also some accounts of Kurds fighting for their Turkish masters against the Franks and their troops are listed as present at the battle of Harran (1104), and during Mawdud of Mosul’s invasions of Edessa (1110, 1111, and 1113),19 but likewise there are reports of Kurdish groups supporting those opposed to Turkish hegemony including the Arab Banu Mazyad in its struggles with Sultan Mohammed in Iraq in 1108 and 1118.20 Little evidence survives for direct contact between the Franks and the Kurds but they must have felt some sense of threat from the expansion of the Crusader States because in 1110 the Kurdish ruler of Hama promised to pay 2000 dinars to the principality of Antioch in annual tribute.21 The county of Edessa initially seems to have maintained rather more positive relations with some Kurdish tribes because in 1111 Joscelin I managed to bribe the Kurdish leader Ahmadil to abandon the siege of Tell Basir, thereby preventing Mawdud of Mosul from taking the town.22 Matthew of Edessa claims that Joscelin and Ahmadil ‘became brothers’.23 In later years there are reports of hostility between the two with Edessan raids

15  Admittedly it is not stated that this group of people were slaves, but their Turkish masters are said to have been driving them before them, which would seem to imply this status. The Historia Ierosolimitana of Baldric of Bourgueil, ed. S. Biddlecombe (Woodbridge, 2014), 97. 16  IAA(C), vol. 1, 62. 17 1102: IAA(C), vol. 1, 59; 1115–16: IAA(C), vol. 1, 240; 1134: IAA(C), vol. 1, 306–7, 1143: IAA(C), vol. 1, 366, 1145: BH, vol. 1, 271; 1146: El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 54; 1170: MS, 697. For discussion on Zangi’s actions towards the Kurds see: El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 52–7. 18  For more details on Zangi’s relations with the neigbouring Kurdish tribes see: El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 52. 19  1104: IAA(C), vol. 1, 79; 1110: AA, 788; IAA(C), vol. 1, 156; 1111: IQ, 114; KAD, 599; 1113: IQ,133. 20  1108: IAA(C), vol. 1, 129; 1118: IAA(C), vol. 1, 193. 21  IAA(C), vol. 1, 154.    22  KAD, 599; IQ, 115.    23  Translation: ME, 207.

166  The Crusader States and their Neighbours against some Kurdish groups reported in 1124 and 1129, although it is notable that following the conquest of Edessa in 1144 the Artuqids launched a series of attacks on Kurdish groups, noting that they no longer had anyone to protect them (seemingly implying that the Franks had previously served as their protectors).24 Attempting to recreate—even in brief—the history of Kurdish relations with either the Franks or the Turks is difficult because we are so rarely told which tribes the Franks/Turks were supporting or attacking (and it is possible that Frankish or Turkish commanders were simultaneously allied with, neutral to, or at war with, different tribes). It is clear nonetheless that the Kurds existed in an exceptionally difficult position, living mostly under Turkish control; sometimes deeming it judicious to offer resistance, sometimes to submit. Frankish territory lay a fair distance from their lands but there are a few indications that some Kurdish leaders saw Edessa or Antioch as an alternative source of protection whilst others fought against them. With this background in mind, the notion that a Kurdish mercenary like Saladin could rise to become the leader of what was essentially a Turkish Empire looks all the more remarkable.25 The Turks had proven themselves willing to make use of auxiliary Kurdish manpower and mercenaries when it suited their purposes, but this is a far cry from accepting and serving under a Kurdish ruler. Indeed, the inter-ethnic conflicts of the previous century had rested squarely on the policy of constraining the Kurds and enforcing Turkish dominion. Doubtlessly Nur al-Din’s (Saladin’s predecessor’s) tendency to lean more heavily for his authority on his Islamic faith—rather than his Turkish identity—may have made it slightly less difficult for Saladin to present himself as his successor, given that he could emphasize the Ayyubids’/Turks’ shared faith26 and thereby distract attention away from their ethnic differences, but it seems likely that there would still have been substantial hurdles to surmount for Saladin to gain active co-operation from the Turkish forces who formed the bulk of his army. The existence of an ongoing sense of ethnic difference between Turks and Kurds is confirmed much later in the 1260s when, with the collapse of the Ayyubid (Kurdish) empire in Egypt and the rise of the Mamluk Turks, this new ruling dynasty steadily downgraded Kurdish authority across their lands. As James has shown, the Kurds ‘ceased to be both a central military force within the Egyptian army and a major political faction within the state’s institutions’.27 24  1124: KAD, 639; 1129: MS, 644; 1144: MS, 667. 25  D. Ayalon, ‘Aspects of the Mamlūk phenomenon, part 2: Ayyūbids, Kurds and Turks’, Der Islam, 54 (1977), 2–8. 26  For discussion on Nur al-Din see: Lev, ‘The jihād of sultan Nūr al-Dīn’, 276. For examples of this sentiment being expressed in the thirteenth century see: Eddé, ‘Kurdes et Turcs dans l’armée Ayyoubide de Syrie du Nord’, 234. 27  B.  James, ‘Mamluk and Mongol peripheral politics: asserting sovereignty in the Middle East’s “Kurdish zone” (1260–1330)’, The Mongols’ Middle East: Continuity and Transformation in Ilkhanid Iran, ed. B. De Nicola and C. Melville, Islamic History and Civilization CXXVII (Leiden, 2016), 295–301 (quotation 297).

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  167 Clearly, once the anomaly of Ayyubid rule had been superseded, old ethnic ­divisions reasserted themselves. Returning to Saladin’s time, it is difficult to know exactly how much trouble Kurdish/Turkish/Turkmen tensions caused for Saladin as a Kurdish leader reigning over a Turkish-led society. However, it is important to note that at some point between 1183 and 1185 the longstanding tensions between the Kurds and the Turkmen tribes erupted into an open and prolonged conflict that lasted for eight years and spread to engulf the region from the Jazira and the Diyar Bakr all the way across to Azerbaijan. Michael the Syrian explains the background to this war noting that when the Turkmen tribes conducted their annual migrations from Syria into their northern pastures, the Kurds used to attack them and rob them of their herds; acts which later led to violence.28 Michael’s verdict on this war’s ­origins is difficult to verify, but it seems relevant to point out that this conflict occurred at a time when Turkmen migration into northern Syria was growing steadily and Turkmen attacks on other societies, including Frankish Antioch and Armenian Cilicia, were becoming substantially more ambitious. The conflict soon became so bitter that, as one Syriac source commented, both sides ‘exterminated each other without pity’.29 By 1185–6 the violence reached a crescendo and two major battles were fought in the Mosul region resulting in a Turkmen victory and then the widespread massacre of Kurdish communities.30 In some regions of Syria, the Kurdish presence is said to have been eradicated altogether.31 Saladin’s response to this ongoing warfare between the Turkmen tribes and the Kurds is unclear, even though he was active in the Mosul region in  that year and controlled much of the area where the fighting was taking place. Even so, a Syriac source reports that the Turkmen tribes became more aggressive when Saladin fell ill in 1185 and even spread false reports of his death; actions that may indicate that he had formerly made some efforts to restrain their attacks.32 The sources for Saladin’s life, written by his advocates and panegyrists, are— predictably—almost silent on either the matter of the Turkmen–Kurdish war or Turkish–Kurdish tensions within Saladin’s empire. Presumably it would not have been in their interests to report these mattters. One of the few Islamic sources to briefly mention the Turkmen–Kurdish war is Ibn al-Athir, but then he was writing a long time after the event when perhaps the tensions were less raw.33 Baha al-Din says nothing about it in his biography of Saladin although he does offer a rather interesting throwaway line when describing Richard I’s second advance on Jerusalem during the Third Crusade—a moment when Saladin was under intense 28  MS, 729–30. 29  French translation: Anonymi Auctoris Chronicon ad A.C.  1234 pertinens II, trans. A.  Abouna (Leuven, 1974), 147. 30  BH, vol. 1, 321.    31  MS, 730. 32  Anonymi Auctoris Chronicon ad A.C. 1234, 146–7.   33  IAA(C), vol. 2, 310.

168  The Crusader States and their Neighbours pressure and in serious danger of losing the holy city. Baha al-Din recalls that a group of emirs asked Saladin to appoint a member of his family to act as their leader ‘for otherwise the Kurds will not submit to the Turks, nor the Turks to the Kurds’; a cryptic remark that hints at inter-ethnic rivalries among Saladin’s forces.34 This remark aside, the Arabic sources say very little about Kurdish/ Turkish tensions during Saladin’s reign and it is quite possible that the Ayyubids would have wanted to draw as little attention to this matter as possible.35 The Latin sources shed no real light on this issue except for a Latin translation of a letter apparently written by Saladin to Emperor Frederick I of Germany, replying to the emperor’s statement that he would lead a crusading army to face the sultan in battle. In this letter, Saladin draws specific attention to the fact that he has the support of both the Bedouin and the Turkmen. Prima facie this is a strange boast; the Franks needed no confirmation that Saladin could muster huge forces. It seems more likely that Saladin was drawing attention to his support from these groups precisely because there had been a time when their loyalty and support had been in doubt.36 Taken overall, the question of how exactly these issues affected Saladin’s career therefore remains an intriguing yet open question. There are strong grounds to suggest, however, that it would have been a serious issue.

Saladin and the Crusader States 1174–87 At the time of Nur al-Din’s death, the balance of power in the Near East was in flux. Nur al-Din had won the battle for Egypt, but Saladin’s sustained disobedience ensured that that he could never make use of the Nile Delta’s resources. Both Saladin and Nur al-Din raided the kingdom of Jerusalem in the early 1170s but neither had made much progress. During this time, Saladin’s most damaging attacks were in the south where in 1170 he conquered the fort of Ayla; the stronghold which gave Jerusalem a presence on the Red Sea coast.37 Saladin’s other ­campaigns into Transjordan prior to Nur al-Din’s death had secured him few ­territorial conquests, but they may have caused other problems for the kingdom of Jerusalem. In previous decades, Transjordan had hardly ever been attacked. There are exceptions, including a Fatimid raid in 1158, but for the most part the 34  Translation from: IS, 210. 35  For discussion on Kurdish/Turkish tensions in Saladin’s army see: Y. Lev, Saladin in Egypt, The Medieval Mediterranean XXI (Leiden, 1999), 157. Although Lev notes that the tensions between these and other groups were complicated by many other factors (158). For other possible references to such tensions see: Ayalon, ‘Aspects of the Mamlūk phenomenon’, 9–10. For the management of Kurdish/ Turkish differences in Ayyubid northern Syria in the thirteenth century and a challenge in part to the idea that there was substantial hostility between Turks and Kurds in this period see: Eddé, ‘Kurdes et Turcs dans l’armée Ayyoubide de Syrie du Nord’, 225–36. 36  Gerald of Wales, Instruction for a Ruler (De Principis Instructione), ed. and trans. R.  Bartlett, OMT (Oxford, 2018), 638. 37  IAA(C), vol. 2, 194.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  169 Egyptians had not ventured that far and the Damascenes rarely pushed much ­further south than Jerusalem’s strongholds on the southern margins of the Hawran.38 In this relative calm, the kingdom had steadily built up its presence across the Transjordan region.39 Given that the kingdom of Jerusalem had scarcely expanded its frontiers by military force in any other quarter since the early twelfth century (except for the conquest of Ascalon) the attacks on Frankish Transjordan may well have been a demoralizing blow. In 1174, Saladin decisively switched targets, manifesting little further interest in the Transjordan for around seven years. The reason was his opportunistic desire to profit from the chaos resulting from Nur al-Din’s death. As with the passing of so many major Turkish rulers there was a substantial period of uncertainty following his demise with the fallen leader’s family members and lieutenants becoming entangled in conflict over his assets (troops, land, money, etc.), while neighbouring powers seized the opportunity to invade. This was certainly true in 1174. The Anatolian Seljuks attacked immediately, seizing several cities from the remaining Danishmendids (who previously had been protected by a treaty with Nur al-Din).40 Sayf al-Din, Zangid ruler of Mosul, marched through the Jazira collecting many of the major towns.41 The kingdom of Jerusalem attacked Banyas, but was bought off by Nur al-Din’s widow.42 Most importantly, Saladin initiated a sudden march against Damascus in October 1174. Saladin was not well positioned to stage a campaign outside Egypt at this time, given that he had just fought off a Sicilian attack against Alexandria in July–August 1174 and subdued a rebellion against his rule in Aswan in August–September.43 Despite these impediments, he was clearly determined and, soon after reaching Damascus, he managed to use a mixture of persuasion and bribery to wrest control over the  city, seizing it from commanders representing Nur al-Din’s heir al-Salih. Throughout this venture Saladin consistently protested his loyalty to Nur al-Din’s family, whilst ensuring that as much power as possible passed into his own hands. This was then another city conquered through threats, promises, bribes and—to a limited extent—military pressure. Saladin then marched north taking Hama and Homs (except for Homs’ citadel which held out) before besieging Aleppo.44 He was evidently hoping to usurp his former master’s main centres of power in a single swoop. In the event, he was partially disappointed and failed to take Aleppo. The Zangids of Syria and the Jazira tried—unsuccessfully—to defeat him in battle in 1175 and again in 1176.45

38  IM, 472. 39  For discussion on Frankish settlement in Transjordan see: Sinibaldi, ‘Settlement in Crusader Transjordan’, passim. 40 MS, 705.   41  IAA(C), vol. 2, 225.    42  WT, 956. 43  Uprising in Egypt: IS, 49; Sicilian siege of Alexandria: WT, 963–4. 44  IAA(C), vol. 2, 231–3. 45  For discussion on these battles see: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 90–107.

170  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Over the next seven years Saladin was forced to wear Aleppo down with a series of sieges and raids, conquering the surrounding strongholds in a manner not dissimilar to the Franks’ assaults on the city in the 1120s. On this occasion at least he faced an urban centre that was determined to resist and so he had no alternative but to forcibly subjugate the city (via: repeated blockades, continual diplomatic pressure, the conquest of surrounding strongholds, and raiding). His main goal in these years was straightforward: the full overthrow of all Zangid territory, and he prioritized this objective above all others. The only major foray he made into Frankish territory occurred when he invaded the kingdom of Jerusalem from the south in 1177 and was seriously defeated at the battle of Montgisard.46 No further attacks were made on the Crusader States before the late spring of 1179.47 During these years Saladin faced many imperatives: maintaining his northern borders against the Anatolian Seljuks; advancing his conquests in Libya and North Africa;48 continuing his duel with the Zangids; and (post 1177) attempting to hold back the Franks.49 The Crusader States’ responses to this period of relative calm -at least along their own borders- varied considerably. Antioch seems to have made a raid on Aleppo in c.1174 but it is not clear that this was a consequence of Nur al-Din’s death.50 Aside from this, the Antiochenes made very little attempt to capitalize on the warfare surrounding Aleppo during this period. Their reason for this became clear in 1175–6 when the Antiochenes made peace with Nur al-Din’s heirs in Aleppo. Their objective seems to have been to form a power block with the Zangids so as to prevent any further Ayyubid advances in the north; a similar kind of agreement to those made between Damascus and Jerusalem in the 1130s and the 1150s to deter Zangi and later Nur al-Din from seizing Damascus.51 The Antiochenes evidently acted on this agreement because in 1176 they attacked and defeated a contingent of Saladin’s army which was currently staging its third blockade of Aleppo.52 Only two major expeditions were despatched to expand Antioch’s borders. The first occurred in 1177–8. This was a Jerusalem-led campaign to conquer Harim—then in rebellion against al-Salih in Aleppo—which failed to take the fortress.53 Antioch’s only other offensive action took place in 1179 when its army raided Shaizar. Seemingly, the Franks hoped that they would be able to conquer the town, which by this stage was clearly becoming—once 46  WT, 991–4. 47  Several sources (IS, 52; Kamal al-Din, ‘L’Histoire  d’Alep de Kamal al-Din’, 564) mention an attack on Kafartab and Ma‘rrat an-Nu‘man during this period but these seem already to have been under Zangid control. 48 A. Baadj, Saladin, the Almohads and the Banū Ghāniya: the Contest for North Africa (12th and 13th Centuries), Studies in the History and Society of the Maghrib (Leiden, 2012), 126–7. 49  The threat from the Anatolian Seljuks: IAA(C), vol. 2, 266–7; Conquests in the Mahgreb: AM, 57–8. 50  This raid is recorded against the year 1173 but makes more sense for 1174 (JK, 217). 51  MS, 710; Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 4, 182–3. 52 MS, 711.   53  WT, 986–7; IAA(C), vol. 2, 255–6.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  171 again—an important strategic goal, given that they had attacked it previously in 1157.54 In the same year Bohemond III granted the town to the military orders so as to make provision for its future defence in the event of a successful conquest.55 These rather limited actions essentially describe a continuation of Antioch’s rather restrained approach to warfare. The Antiochene Franks were clearly prepared to make opportunistic attacks when possible (such as the attack on Shaizar) and the principality was certainly was not a spent force.56 Indeed, in one twelfth century chanson, Antioch was used as a byword for extreme wealth.57 Even so, the principality’s policy concerning major powers such as the Aleppan Zangids suggests a desire simply to maintain the status quo and avoid an Ayyubid overthrow in Aleppo. Certainly when Saladin eventually conquered Aleppo in 1183, Bohemond III immediately requested assistance from Jerusalem even though the principality had suffered no actual attack, nor would it do so until after Hattin; thus indicating the extent of his concern at the expansion of Saladin’s power.58 In this same year Antioch signed a treaty with Saladin which, following a brief Antiochene raid in 1184, seems to have been renewed the following year.59 Tripoli was more pugilistic. Tripoli’s forces often worked in co-operation with Jerusalemite troops and the tight association between these two states may go some way to explaining Tripoli’s willingness to confront the sultan. Consequently, while Saladin was engaged fighting the Aleppans in the north in the summer of 1175, Raymond III of Tripoli sought to pursue the county’s longstanding goal of seizing Homs. In the event, he was forced to withdraw when Saladin moved south from Aleppo to block his advance.60 Whether the count truly sought to gain permanent control of the town seems unlikely given that much of the intervening territory (notably Barin and Rafaniyya) still lay unconquered. It seems more likely that he was hoping to deter Saladin from pressing his attack on Aleppo by drawing his attention south. In 1175 Saladin came to terms with the count of Tripoli offering prisoners in return for the count’s non-intervention.61 Even so, Tripolitan forces supported the kingdom of Jerusalem’s attacks on the Biqa (1176), Hama, Homs, and Harim (1177), and Damascene territory (1182).62 This latter attack was led by Count Raymond of Tripoli, then acting as regent for Jerusalem. 54  WT, 836–7. 55  RRR, no. 1022. For discussion and the dating of this document see: H. Mayer, Varia Antiochena: Studien zum Kreuzfahrerfürstentum Antiochia im 12. und frühen 13. Jahrhundert (Hanover, 1993), 38, 79; Buck, ‘The military orders and the principality of Antioch’, 289. 56  Smail commented that after 1164 ‘Antioch had ceased to count as a military power’: Smail, Crusading Warfare, 35. This statement has been challenged by Buck in, The Principality of Antioch, 117. 57  Chrétien de Troyes, ‘Cligés’, Arthurian Romances, trans. W. Kibler (London, 2004), 132. 58  WT, 1047–8. 59  1183 agreement: WT, 1047; 1184 raid: BH, vol. 1, 317; renewed agreement: MS, 727. 60  IAA(C), vol. 2, 234.    61  WT, 973. 62  Biqa (1176): IAA(C), vol. 2, 249–50; Hama, Homs and Harim (1177): WT, 986–7; and Damascus (1182): WT, 1038–39.

172  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The county may also have staged raids on Hama and Homs in 1177–8, again reflecting the county’s longstanding rivalry with these towns.63 In addition to the abovementioned combined attacks, Jerusalem was also highly aggressive during the years 1174–82, raiding Damascene territory in 1175, 1176, and 1179.64 During the 1176 campaign Jerusalem scored a battlefield victory against Damascus’ governor Turan Shah, a feat which they built upon the following year in the kingdom’s abovementioned victory at Montgisard. Jerusalem’s forces also launched a series of long-distance raids on targets including the Nile Delta and the Sinai in 1175, 1178–9, and 1181 as well as the abovementioned northern campaign culminating in the siege of Harim in 1177.65 Unusually, compared to previous years, the fertile Hawran region was rarely targeted by Jerusalemite forces. Burchard of Strassburg provides an explanation for this noting that the region and its population had been so run down from earlier attacks that it was no longer a worthwhile target.66 The only major Frankish defeat took place in 1179 when, in a bold move, the Franks sought to construct a fortress on their border with Damascus at Jacob’s Ford. Saladin recognized the inherent danger in this venture and, having attempted to buy off the Franks, managed to defeat Jerusalem’s army and destroy the fortress.67 Reviewing the above, Jerusalem’s military history pre-1182 is defined, for the most part, both by its combative stance and several major successes. Saladin’s preoccupations with the Zangids and Anatolian Seljuks created a window of opportunity lasting almost a decade which the Franks were keen to grasp. Admittedly, they were unsuccessful in preventing Saladin’s rising power across Syria and the Jazira and they seized very little new territory, but nonetheless, by early 1180s the kingdom’s frontiers had suffered few attacks in recent years and its coastal heartlands had been secure for decades.68 An indication of Jerusalem’s power at this time was its ability in 1183 to send 300 knights to support Antioch. Given that the kingdom’s field armies never exceeded 1300 knights in total during this period, this gesture reflects Jerusalem’s military confidence.69 The major shift in the region’s strategic balance occurred in 1182 when Saladin launched the first of a series of major invasions into the kingdom of Jerusalem. In 1182 he cut a path across Transjordan and then raided in the vicinity of Lake Tiberias. He then turned south but was driven back by the Franks at the battle of 63  IAA(C), vol. 2, 258–60. 64  1175: WT, 974–5; 1176: WT, 975–6; 1179: WT, 998–1000. 65  Attacks on the Nile Delta: Anonymi Auctoris Chronicon ad A.C. 1234, 136; AM, 64. Attack on Sinai: AM, 57. 66  Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 239. 67  For the Jacob’s Ford campaign see: Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 258–74. 68  The only exceptions are a series of naval raids in 1179, see Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 143. The pressure on Jerusalem during this period was sporadic and there is little to suggest that there was ‘incessant pressure’ on the kingdom’s borders during the late 1160s and 1170s (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 161). 69  WT, 1053.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  173 La Forbelet. His raiders subsequently attacked Beirut while Egyptian forces raided Darum and Gaza.70 Jerusalem responded in the late autumn with a series of attacks on Damascus, while Saladin was absent; drawn north by the renewed attacks of the Zangids of Mosul.71 In late 1182, the kingdom of Jerusalem took the offensive again when Reynald of Châtillon (former prince of Antioch, now lord of Transjordan) launched a naval raid into the Red Sea.72 This venture was not a one-off attack because previously Reynald had advanced south into the Arabian Peninsula raiding towards Medina, probably with Bedouin help. Clearly he had designs to expand into this region.73 Meanwhile in 1183, Saladin was occupied conducting the final overthrow of Aleppo but, when this was accomplished, he invaded the kingdom of Jerusalem where his forces were shadowed and compelled to withdraw, having only made limited gains, by the kingdom’s army. By this stage Saladin’s forces were becoming very large indeed, reflecting the vast territories he had brought under his control (Table 6.1 lists the figures supplied by contemporary writers). Later in November 1183 he attacked Kerak but raised the siege upon learning of a Frankish relief army.74 The following year Saladin made another failed attack on Kerak and another heavy raid on the kingdom of Jerusalem, but again secured Table 6.1  Armies raised by Saladin or his commanders (1174–87) Event

Numbers supplied

Conquest of Damascus (1174) Siege of Homs (1174) Horns of Hama (1175) Battle against the Zangid/ Artuqid coalition (1176) Battle of Montgisard (1177)

700 horsemen (al-Maqrizi)75 7000 cavalry76 20,000 troops77 6000 troops78

Reference

26,000 cavalry including 8000 elite WT, 991 horsemen (William of Tyre) Battle with Qilij Arslan II (1179) 1000 cavalry—Taqi al-Din, Saladin’s IAA(C), nephew (Ibn al-Athir) vol. 1, 267 La Forbelet campaign (1182) 20,000 cavalry (William of Tyre) WT, 1030 Kerak (1187) 12,000 cavalry (al-Maqrizi)79 Hattin (1187) 12,000 cavalry as well as other forces IAA(C), (Ibn al-Athir) vol. 1, 319 30,000 in total—the estimate offered and accepted by many historians80

70 Hamilton, Leper King, 175.   71  WT, 1038–43. 72  IAA(C), vol. 2, 289–90; Chronique d’Ernoul, 69–70. 73  AM, 66; Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 157. 74  WT, 1055–6; IAA(C), vol. 2, 297–8.    75  AM, 51. 76  Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 85   77  See: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 93. 78  Reference taken from Imad al-Din, cited in: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 103. 79  AM, 82. 80  For example: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 253; Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 66.

174  The Crusader States and their Neighbours little advantage.81 The kingdom of Jerusalem’s incursions in this period were limit­ed to a series of raids into the Egyptian borderlands.82 Very little conflict took place in 1185 and 1186 while Saladin focused on his vendetta with the Zangids of Mosul and the kingdom of Jerusalem was covered by a truce. Reflecting back on these years, as is well known, the kingdom of Jerusalem was riven with internal political fissures, revolving especially on the question of the succession to Baldwin IV (whose leprosy made him unable to marry and supply an heir) and the regency (during times when Baldwin’s illness rendered him un­able to rule). It is tempting to view this infighting as proof of a decline both in the kingdom of Jerusalem’s broader geopolitical power in general and also more particularly in its ability to offer a coherent response to Saladin’s incursions. Reviewing the above history of attack and counter-attack, there can be little doubt that between 1182 and 1186 the kingdom of Jerusalem had lost the upper hand. During these years it was reduced to making opportunistic attacks, launched when Saladin was occupied elsewhere, or small-scale surprise attacks against targets such as coastal settlements in Egypt. Saladin, on the other hand, was willing to stage a series of frontal assaults on the kingdom of Jerusalem even at times when its army was fully prepared to receive his attack. This differs sharply from his earlier invasion into Jerusalem in 1177 when he had only been willing to attack when Jerusalem’s army was away, fighting in the north. Jerusalem also had another problem. The death of Manuel Comnenus on 24 September 1180 precipitated a succession crisis in the Byzantine Empire which resulted in the elevation of Andronicus I Comnenos in 1182. His subsequent accession was embattled and he soon became embroiled in wars against the Hungarians and Sicilians. The question of whether the Emperor Andronicus should be perceived as anti-Latin in his policies is a longstanding debate beyond the scope of this present work and yet,83 whatever his motives, Andronicus either could not—or chose not—to render anything like the same kind of support for the Crusader States as his predecessor. A major prop to Eastern Frankish power had evaporated. Even if the initiative lay with Saladin in the 1180s, he remained conspicuously unsuccessful in achieving anything resembling a major success. He suffered a defeat in 1182, was fended off with no substantial gains in 1183, and achieved ­little beyond raiding activities in 1184. Such raids were doubtlessly very damaging to the kingdom of Jerusalem’s rural infrastructure and Saladin’s cavalry reached regions which had not suffered any kind of attack for many years—possibly ­decades.84 The relentless pressure of his attacks between 1182–4 also seems to 81  IAA(C), vol. 2, 300–1. 82  IAA(C), vol. 2, 293; AM, 71, 78. Hamilton has shown that the conquest of Egypt remained the kingdom of Jerusalem’s long-term goal during the 1170s: Hamilton, Leper King, 111 and passim. 83 J. Harris, Byzantium and the Crusades, 2nd ed. (London, 2014), 121–36. 84  See for example Ibn al-Athir’s comment: IAA(C), vol. 2,297.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  175 have stretched the kingdom of Jerusalem’s economic resources to breaking point, as Baldwin and his regents struggled to raise armies large enough to hold Saladin at bay. These points, however, do not change the fact that Saladin had still failed to achieve the conquest of any significant territory, aside from making some inroads along the fringes of the kingdom’s southern borders.85 He—or his commanders—had also suffered defeat on several occasions on the battlefield, in 1176, 1177, and 1182; indeed Roger of Howden commented concerning Baldwin IV that ‘by him a multitude of pagans was often defeated and destroyed’; Arnold of Lübeck was equally positive about Baldwin’s success in the field.86 On these grounds then there is little to support the idea that the infighting within the ­kingdom of Jerusalem substantially weakened its defensive capabilities during this period.87 Given that the Crusader States had weathered many attacks from large-scale Turkish forces in previous decades, in some periods suffering annual assaults from armies comparable in size to Saladin’s forces (such as during the period 1110–20), the Franks probably hoped that if the kingdom of Jerusalem could maintain its dogged defence against Saladin’s incursions then the sultan’s coalition would ultimately collapse into dynastic infighting following his death.88 This is certainly what happened with Ilghazi, Balak, Zangi, and Nur al-Din (and indeed Saladin himself in 1193). Among the many Christian commanders who led the Frankish forces in these campaigns, the most controversial is Guy of Lusignan. He is a much-disputed individual in the history of the Crusader States and his competence as a military commander has become a major source of debate. During the period 1182–6 he is most famous for his conduct on two campaigns, firstly his efforts to fend off Saladin’s army in 1183 and then an attack on the Bedouin in 1184. Guy’s conduct in both these ventures has been harshly criticized, but they both warrant closer study. With regard to Saladin’s invasion in 1183, the narrative runs as follows. Saladin crossed the Jordan, passing into Frankish territory on 29 September. His attack was not unexpected and so most of the region’s inhabitants had already fled.89 He then burned Bethsan and his raiding forces fanned out to pillage the countryside. Guy of Lusignan then responded by moving Jerusalem’s army south from its encampment at Saffuriya to confront Saladin at the springs at Tubanie.90 The Christian army was prepared to drive Saladin from the springs, although it feared to do so, but Saladin did not contest possession of the site, withdrawing instead towards Bethsan.91 The armies then faced one another for several days 85 Barber, Crusader States, 291. 86  Latin text: Roger of Howden, Chronica, vol. 1, 275; Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 164. 87  Historians have long challenged the idea that the Crusader States were in decline. The notion that it was in decline seems to arise in large part from William of Tyre’s chronicle which does give this impression. For an early challenge to this notion see: Baldwin, ‘The decline and fall of Jerusalem’, 590. 88 Barber, Crusader States, 291.   89  IAA(C), vol. 2,297. 90 WT, 1051.   91  WT, 1051.

176  The Crusader States and their Neighbours (Ibn al-Athir says five days, William of Tyre says seven–eight), skirmishing, but fighting no major battle.92 On 7 October, Saladin swung north towards Mount Tabor.93 His raiders attacked the fortified Frankish monastery on the mount, but were beaten off by the monks.94 Ibn al-Athir commented that by moving north Saladin was feigning flight; hoping to draw the Franks into a pursuit that would allow him to defeat them at a place of his own choosing.95 Guy only partially took the bait and, rather than marching to Mount Tabor, he moved north to return to his army’s original camp at Saffuriya. Saladin then attacked the Franks’ marching columns but was unable to break up their ordered marching ranks. Saladin then withdrew, reaching Damascus on 13 October.96 How should these events be interpreted? For William of Tyre, Ibn al-Athir, and Ibn Shaddad, the most important fact in this campaign was that Guy had refused battle. There are no dissenting voices among contemporaries from this conclusion. Focusing on this point, Ibn al-Athir says that the Franks were reluctant to fight because they wanted to ensure their own survival; Ibn Shaddad because they feared the size of Saladin’s army.97 William of Tyre explains the Franks’ refusal to fight by con­sidering several possible explanations including: dissent among the Frankish leaders (and a reluctance to grant Guy a victory which might bolster his political position) and the strong location of Saladin’s army in the vicinity of Tubanie, which was sufficient to deter attack.98 Whatever the real reason, William of Tyre was appalled that so large a Christian army had achieved so little and presents Guy’s actions as a reason for King Baldwin’s subsequent decision to strip him of the regency.99 In contrast to contemporary writers, historians in recent decades have taken a more favourable view of Guy’s actions during this campaign. It has been observed that by ‘shadowing’ Saladin’s army in this way, the kingdom’s army safeguarded its heartlands (albeit by sacrificing large areas of the Jordan valley and the region around Nazareth to Saladin’s raiders), suffered no permanent territorial loss, and did not expose itself to the uncertainties of battle.100 Hamilton, while accepting these points, notes that Guy did fail to protect the holy places (most importantly the monastery on Mount Tabor) and that he squabbled with the Crusade’s leadership. He concludes that Guy was an inexperienced leader.101 92  IAA(C), vol. 2, 297; WT, 1055.    93 IS, 61.   94  WT, 1052. 95  IAA(C), vol. 2, 297; IS, 90.    96  IS, 62. 97  IAA(C), vol. 2, 297; IS, 61. See also: L. Yarbrough, ‘Symbolic Conflict and Cooperation in the Neglected Chronicle of a Syrian Prince’, Syria in Crusader Times: Conflict and Coexistence, C. Hillenbrand (Edinburgh, 2020), 131. 98  WT, 1054. 99  WT, 1057–8. Although, as Lewis has shown, it is not entirely clear from William’s account when exactly Guy was stripped of the regency: Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 256. 100 France, Western Warfare, 218–19. Smail also discusses this view: R. Smail, ‘The Predicaments of Guy of Lusignan, 1183–1187’, Studies in the History of the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem (Jerusalem, 1982), 159–76. See also: Baldwin, ‘The decline and fall of Jerusalem’, 600. 101 Hamilton, Leper King, 191. For other negative judgements of Guy’s performance in this year see: Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 207–8; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 144.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  177 The problem with any recreation of this campaign is that all the sources either set out to celebrate Saladin’s achievements or are, in William of Tyre and Ernoul’s case, hostile to Guy of Lusignan; thus we lack any source favourable (or at least neutral) to Guy and his conduct. The strength of the sources, however, is that while they stress different elements of the campaign, they fundamentally agree on the basic course of events. Reviewing this narrative, however, there are several additional points that need to be made. Firstly, Guy was not averse to fighting a battle. When he advanced on the springs of Tubanie, Saladin’s forces were in possession of the site and so by staging this advance he was necessarily risking battle. Saladin could have fought him there if he chose, but instead he withdrew. On this occasion then it was Saladin, not Guy, who refused battle (it has to be remembered that the Frankish army in 1183 was huge—significantly larger than any Frankish army Saladin had previously encountered). Then, after the five–eight day standoff at Tubanie, Saladin withdrew to the north, hoping to lure Guy into a pursuit and then into a pitched battle. In the event, of course, Guy would not be drawn, but the mere fact that Saladin attempted this strategy reflects his belief that Guy was not averse to the idea of fighting a major battle and might be led into a pursuit (and Saladin was generally well informed about affairs in the Christian camp). Why then did Guy refuse to fight outside Tubanie when the two armies confronted each other for several days? The answer to this lies most probably in the strength of Saladin’s fortified camp, which apparently was grounded firmly in a rocky area and well protected. In the past, at battles such as those fought against Bursuq of Hamadhan (1115) and Nur al-Din (1163), the Franks had launched sudden cavalry attacks which had burst unexpected through an enemy’s unprotected camp, but seemingly Saladin had learned from his predecessors’ mistakes and built up his field fortifications. Guy’s refusal then looks more like a pragmatic assessment rather than cowardice or dithering indecision; he was not prepared to attack a nu­mer­ic­ al­ly superior force in a fortified location. Turning the question round, it might well be asked why Saladin refused a battle on this same occasion when presented with a major Christian army within striking distance. The answer here is probably the same: Saladin was prepared to fight the Franks but not when they were entrenched in a well sited camp. He used a deliberate withdrawal and, later, his assaults against the Christian army on the march to try and force an encounter when it was advantageous for him to do so, but—like Guy—he was not inclined towards suicidal ventures. How then should Guy’s deeds be assessed? Reflecting on his conduct, several points present themselves. The adoption of a shadowing approach was a sensible choice. Guy’s position seems to have been that he would block Saladin’s advances but would only fight a battle under advantageous circumstances. Despite the impression given by William of Tyre’s chronicle, this was not a new tactic. Plenty of commanders in the past had employed shadowing tactics. To take only a ­couple

178  The Crusader States and their Neighbours of examples: in 1118 Baldwin II sat on his hands and watched a major Fatimid army encamped on the kingdom’s southern border apparently for three months, the two armies being in full sight of one another the whole time.102 More im­port­ ant­ ly, only the previous year in 1182 the Jerusalemite army had shadowed Saladin’s forces as they traversed Transjordan without giving battle.103 Shadowing tactics were also common in Western Christendom.104 It seems likely that William’s willingness to draw attention to Guy’s supposed refusal to fight a battle in 1183 can be explained more by his personal antipathy than because it was out of kilter with standard practice in the Near East (although the possibility has to be entertained that the large numbers of visiting Crusaders who were present in the army may well have been disappointed). Moreover, during this campaign, Guy executed a number of manoeuvres that speak highly of his ability as a commander. He was prepared to advance into the teeth of Saladin’s advancing army and then to hold a position for several days whilst suffering attacks from harassing light cavalry. Then, despite food shortages, he executed a fighting march—under attack—across the difficult ground between Tubanie and Saffuriya. He also restrained himself from pursuing Saladin’s army when he seemed to withdraw—a trap that could lead even experienced commanders into disaster (such as Raymond of Poitiers at Inab in 1149 and Bohemond III at Harim in 1164). He achieved all this despite the political divisions within the kingdom and opinionated noblemen in his ranks. The only point that speaks against his competence as a commander is that his army ran out of food whilst encamped at Tubanie, but even here the point needs to be made that carrying large numbers of supply waggons within a fighting march would have been extremely difficult and, despite his forces’ rumbling bellies, he was still able to get the army back to Saffuriya intact despite being under sustained attack. In short, Guy’s performance, whilst resulting in no stellar victory, actually speaks rather highly of his ability. Exactly why he was subsequently dismissed as regent is difficult to determine, but the possibility has to be entertained that it was the result of political shenanigans rather than because Guy had performed poorly on campaign. Guy’s other supposed military failing occurred the following year when he raided the Bedouin near Darum. For William of Tyre, this was deeply regrettable act and he points out that these Bedouin were under royal protection.105 Baldwin IV was apparently so distressed by this attack that he died soon afterwards.106 Prima facie this was, as Hamilton has observed, an act of ‘wanton folly’.107 The Bedouin 102  FC, 619; WT, 553. 103  IAA(C), vol. 2, 281; P. Edbury, ‘Propaganda and faction in the kingdom of Jerusalem: the background to Hattin’, Crusaders & Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. M. Shatzmiller, The Medieval Mediterranean I (Leiden, 1993), 178. 104  See: C.  Rogers, ‘The Vegetian “Science of Warfare” in the Middle Ages’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 1 (Woodbridge, 2002), 9. 105 WT, 1063–4.   106  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 12. 107 Hamilton, The Leper King, 204.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  179 Arabs were longstanding allies to the Franks along their southern borders and so to jeopardize this alliance with such a brutal act ran contrary to the political logic of the entire region, perhaps even paving the way for the kind of judgement that would present Guy as the stereotypical aggressive Frankish knight from Western Europe, unable to grasp the complexities and cross-cultural alliances surrounding the Crusader States. This kind of interpretation may be exactly correct, but the point also needs to be made that there are question marks surrounding this venture. The kingdom of Jerusalem’s relationship with the Bedouin went all the way back to the era directly following the First Crusade. In later decades the accord between the Bedouin and Franks was a cornerstone of Jerusalemite politics along its southern borders. Legally the Bedouin were regarded as being the king’s personal property, paying for their pasture rights and in return falling under royal protection.108 Nevertheless, this relationship had rarely been harmonious. The Franks perceived the Bedouin as treacherous and liable to change sides at short notice. William of Tyre himself evinced this view when describing the Bedouin’s harassment of Saladin’s beaten army after Montgisard (1177).109 So common was the idea of Bedouin treachery in Western Europe that the remark ‘double-talking Bedouin’ was employed as an insult in contemporary parlance.110 Both Christian and Muslim sources likewise describe Bedouin tribes working with the Franks’ enemies. In 1156 the Fatimids are reported to have paid the Bedouin to raid the kingdom of Jerusalem’s lands in Transjordan and there are sporadic reports of Bedouin troops working with the Zangids.111 In addition, there are several indicators suggesting that this relationship was becoming rather mixed in the years before 1184. On one hand, there are examples of conflict. In 1179 Syrian Bedouin launched raids both around Sidon and Beirut and also in the south of the kingdom of Jerusalem. In the same year Saladin also attempted to win support among the tribes around Darum. Around the same time, the Templars made complaints about Hospitaller turcopoles from Bethgibelin raiding Bedouin under their protection.112 In 1181 Saladin seems to have set out purposefully to force the Bedouin of the Eastern Nile Delta to submit to his authority, demanding that all commerce with the Franks cease (although the response of the Bedouin tribes affected is not stated).113 In 1182 Bedouin tribes raided the eastern portions of the kingdom, taking advantage of Saladin’s incursions in that year.114 108 Prawer, Crusader Institutions, 214. 109  WT, 993. For context on this incident see: P. Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre, The Medieval Mediterranean CIII (Leiden, 2015), 97. For discussion on Saladin’s relatiosn with the Bedouin see: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 314. 110  Translation from: M. Newth, Heroes of the French Epic (Woodbridge, 2005), 307. 111  IM, 470. 112 Hamilton, The Leper King, 143; Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 157; RRR, no. 1020; UKJ, vol. 2, 695. See also: Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 4, 157. 113 AM, 63.    114  IAA(C), vol. 2, 283.

180  The Crusader States and their Neighbours On the other, there are examples of accord. When Reynald of Châtillon made his infamous naval raid into the Red Sea, the Bedouin apparently were involved on both sides, some supplying camels—at a price—so that the Franks could transport their ships to the Red Sea while others provided Saladin’s forces with their cavalry mounts.115 Also, shortly before this, in a legal document issued by Baldwin IV to the Hospitallers, provision was made for the relocation of Bedouin tribes out of Muslim territory and into Frankish territory.116 Taken overall, the kingdom’s relationship with the various Bedouin tribes is difficult to recreate given that we are not told which tribes they either co-operated with or fought against. Nevertheless, relations prior to 1184 were not ubiquitously harmonious and seem to have been becoming more conflictual. More suggestively in his account of the year 1183–4 Ibn al-Athir describes a Frankish raid out of Darum intended to attack Egyptian territory. This attack was then intercepted by a Muslim force and defeated.117 This account is very interesting. It is not clear whether he is reporting the same attack as Guy’s raid against the Bedouin in 1184, which took place in the same area, but given that Guy’s raid successfully achieved its objectives, gathering slaves and cattle, rather than encountering a Muslim forces in a major skirmish, it seems more likely that the encounter described by Ibn al-Athir was a separate and earlier venture. If this was the case then it is natural to wonder if the events that took place in the earlier raid out of Darum in some way prepared the ground for Guy’s raid in the same area during the following year. It is impossible to be certain on this point and yet the existence of this earlier raid at the very least implies that there was context for this attack. The purpose of this discussion has been to problematize the easy acceptance of William of Tyre’s characterization of Guy’s incursion against the Bedouin. It may have been—exactly as he claims—a consummate act of folly, but there are grounds to suggest that it may also have been rather more complicated. Returning to northern Syria, while the kingdom of Jerusalem was being pummelled by Saladin’s percussive attacks during the early 1180s, the principality of Antioch’s frontiers remained remarkably calm. As mentioned above, Saladin hardly ever attacked and the principality was generally covered by truces. Saladin himself seems to have been more concerned about the threat from Zangid Mosul and the Anatolian Seljuks and did not concern himself much with Antiochene affairs. As shown above, Saladin’s conquest of Aleppo clearly worried the principality’s leaders and they requested assistance from Jerusalem immediately afterwards. Even so, no attack materialized. Thus it seems likely that this was a fairly peaceful—if very tense—period for the principality and certainly it had been several decades since the principality had suffered any serious loss of territory. 115  Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr: A Mediaeval Spanish Muslim visits Makkah, Madinah, Egypt, Cities of the Middle East and Sicily, trans. R. Broadhurst (London, 2004), 52; AM, 70. 116  UKJ, vol. 2, 690; RRR, no. 1009.    117  IAA(C), vol. 2, 293.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  181 Antioch’s military policies underwent a significant change in the late 1170s when—after decades of relative quiescence—the principality adopted a more pugnacious stance. As shown above, in 1179 Bohemond III attacked Shaizar. In the same year he also granted lands to Joscelin III of Courtenay (titular count of Edessa) which included a clause concerning the fallen county’s possible reconquest.118 Clearly, he was feeling rather upbeat about Frankish prospects in Northern Syria. More importantly, he resurrected his forebears’ ambitions towards Cilicia. By 1180, many years had elapsed since Antioch has lost its pos­ition in Cilicia (back in the 1130s).119 In the intervening period, Cilicia had been criss-crossed by invading armies.120 In 1137 the Byzantines restaked their claim when John II Comnenus led several large armies into the region, crushing Armenian resistance and expelling the Antiochene garrisons which had been established the previous year. It did not take long however for other challengers to emerge and the Anatolian Seljuks attacked Adana even before John II had withdrawn his forces.121 The Danishmendids followed suit soon after although it is not clear exactly how much territory they brought permanently under their control.122 In 1142 John made a further incursion into Cilicia and two years later sent a fleet against Antioch, apparently in retaliation for Frankish raids on Cilicia.123 In 1145 Cilicia broke out into full rebellion against the Greeks led by Toros II, son of Leon. In the wake of this uprising, there was a real risk of Byzantine and Turkish intervention and so Toros made a marriage alliance with the Frankish lord of Raban.124 In the event, it was the Turks who responded first, launching a disastrous invasion into Cilicia during which they were defeated with heavy cas­ ual­ties.125 In 1152 the Byzantines tried to re-impose control and they too were driven off.126 The Greeks then tried to pay the Seljuks to invade, but when a Seljuk force crossed the border in c.1153–4 the Armenians simply submitted to Seljuk authority.127 This status quo was again disrupted in 1155 when the Seljuks staged a new invasion only to be repelled by Toros II.128 Over the next few years, Toros II worked closely with the Antiochenes, seemingly rebuilding the old Frankish– Armenian alliance that had existed pre-1130. This worried the Greeks and when Manuel Comnenus invaded Cilicia and Antioch in 1158 he specifically wanted to break up this relationship. During the 1158 campaign, Toros II formally submitted to the Byzantines and the Greeks managed to maintain an uneasy control over Cilicia until 1166, when the Armenians defeated the Byzantine ­governor in battle.129

118  Tabluae Ordinis Theutonici, ed. E. Strehlke (Berlin, 1869, rpr. 1975), 10; RRR, no. 1018. 119  For this dating see: Asbridge, ‘Alice of Antioch’, 47. 120  For a survey see: C. Mutafian, ‘The brilliant diplomacy of Cilician Armenia’, Armenian Cilicia, ed. R. Hovannisian and S. Payaslian (Costa Mesa, 2008), 93–110. 121  ASC2, 277.   122 MS, 657.   123 NC, 31.   124 MS, 677.   125  MS, 677. 126 JK, 98.   127 ME, 262.   128 ME, 263.   129  NC, 78–80.

182  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The next major event was Toros II’s death in 1168. He was succeeded briefly by his son Roupen who was then supplanted by Toros’ brother Mleh. Significantly, Mleh decisively restructured Cilicia’s geopolitics by siding with Nur al-Din (thereby jettisoning the Roupenids’ longstanding alliance with the Franks). It is even reported that he took power with the assistance of Zangid troops.130 This Armenian–Zangid alliance persisted for several years and in c.1173 Mleh took the opportunity to drive out the remaining Byzantine garrisons from Adana, Mamistra, and Tarsus.131 By this stage, this new threat from Cilicia had become severe enough to draw King Amalric to the north, possibly at the request of Emperor Manuel (a very rare event given his fixation with the conquest of Egypt).132 He began the task of subduing Cilicia but was forced to withdraw on news that Nur al-Din had attacked Transjordan.133 The disruption caused by Mleh’s policies came to an end with his death in 1175, following which he was succeeded by his nephew Roupen III, who forcibly took control across Cilicia and re-assumed pro-Frankish politics.134 By the 1180s there were two proximate threats to both Armenia and Antioch. The first—naturally—was Saladin, but the second was the growing number of Turkmen tribesmen pressing on their frontiers. For decades the Turkmen had been a major presence in Southern Anatolia but there are grounds to suggest that their numbers were growing. Increasingly, there are reports of Turkmen tribes attacking independently and without the support of a leading dynasty (such as the Zangids, Artuqids, or Ayyubids). Moreover, the abovementioned struggle between the Turkmen and the Kurds (which the Turkmen won) similarly speaks of their rising confidence. The reasons for their growing population may be connected to the pressure exerted by the Oghuz Turks on the Seljuk Empire’s eastern regions, initially along the Oxus river and later in Persia. The Oghuz Turks’ sustained migrations/invasions seem to have displaced many Turkmen tribes driving them the west135 (rather as the Seljuks had done in the eleventh century and the Mongols would in the thirteenth). Either way, the threat from Turkmen groups continued to rise over the next century and, during the thirteenth century, the Antiochene Franks wrote repeatedly to the West complaining of the sustained pressure exerted by Turkmen raiders.136 Returning to the 1180s, one mani­fest­ ation of rising Turkmen presence was an attack by Roupen III on Turkmen tribes that had moved into the Cilician region. This in turn provoked a retaliatory attack

130  BH, vol. 1, 292.    131  IAA(C), vol. 2, 210. 132 Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 235–6.   133  WT, 947–50. 134 Sempad the Constable, La chronique attribuée au connétable Smbat, trans. G.  Dédéyan, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des Croisades (Paris, 1980), 55–6. 135  Durand-Guédy, ‘Goodbye to the Türkmens?’, 129. 136  Bullarium Cyprium: Papal Letters concerning Cyprus, ed. C.  Schabel, intro. J.  Richard, 2 vols, Cyprus Research Centre: Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus LXIV (Nicosia, 2010), (vol. 1) 432–5, 473–4, 479–80 (vol. 2), 123.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  183 by Saladin that Ibn al-Athir justified by claiming that the Turkmen had been invited into Armenia and then treacherously attacked.137 Seemingly at some point after this, Bohemond III opened a new war against the Armenians, managing to acquire the crucial Cilician city of Tarsus, although he sold it back to Roupen in 1183.138 Hamilton suggests that this sale took place to raise money following Saladin’s conquest of Aleppo and certainly the Antiochenes were deeply worried by the Aleppo’s overthrow because shortly afterwards the abbey chapter of St Paul’s (Antioch) secured the agreement that if the principality should fall then they could take refuge with at the abbey of Mount Tabor in the kingdom of Jerusalem.139 Then in 1185 Bohemond staged a new offensive towards Cilicia, capturing Roupen and settling a peace deal which yielded Tarsus, Adana, and Mamistra to the Franks.140 These territorial gians were soon lost, however, in a subsequent rebellion. The northern wars fought by the principality of Antioch over Cilicia demonstrate that, so far from being in long-term decline, the principality of Antioch was pugnacious and on the offensive even into the mid-1180s. As a Genoese writer commented to Urban III in a letter concerning the battle of Hattin: the principality of Antioch at that point in time was ‘well fortified’.141 It is natural to ask therefore why Bohemond III rendered so little aid to the kingdom of Jerusalem in these years and, most particularly, during the Hattin campaign of 1187 for which the principality only sent fifty knights.142 A variant on this question was certainly posed later by the Armenian Catholicos Grigor who, in his lament on the fall of Jerusalem, enquired why Antioch was not doing more to support its ‘sister’ city.143 The answer must lie partly in the principality’s care to maintain its treaties with Saladin, but also because the Turkmen raids were intensifying. In 1187 a Turkmen coalition led by one ‘Rustem’ (who had spearheaded the anti-Kurdish campaign in 1185) invaded both Antioch and Cilicia, raiding widely and causing considerable damage despite the best efforts of Bohemond III.144 Presumably this threat kept the Antiochene military in the north, enabling them to send only a fraction of their strength to support its embattled southern neighbour.

137  IAA(C), vol. 2, 272–3; BH, vol. 1, 310. 138  WT, 1048. William of Tyre says that Antioch received Tarsus initially from the Greeks, but it seems unlikely that the Greeks had it in their gift given that the town had fallen to the Armenians a long while previously. Perhaps the Greeks granted Antioch the theoretical right to the town, which Bohemond then followed up. 139 Hamilton, Leper King, 188; RRR, no. 1137.    140  MS, 727–8. 141  Latin text: Benedict of Peterborough (Roger of Howden), ‘Gesta Henrici Secundi’, The Chronicle of the Reigns of Henry II and Richard I, ed. W. Stubbs, vol. 2, RS (London, 1867), 12. 142  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 42. 143  Translation from: Boyadjian, The City Lament, 131. 144 BH, vol. 1, 328; Sempad the Constable, La chronique attribuée au connétable Smbat, 63–4; Robert of Auxerre, ‘Roberti Autissiodorensis Chronicon’, 251; C.  Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: a General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History c.1071–1330, trans. J. Jones-Williams (London, 1968), 110–11.

184  The Crusader States and their Neighbours

Rethinking Hattin 1187 On 2 July 1187 Guy of Lusignan made a decision that was entirely rational when placed in the context of Near Eastern military history. Famously, he decided— seemingly having been given a firm steer by his supporters—to advance out from the Frankish encampment at Saffuriya and then to march to relieve the town of Tiberias, which was then under siege by Saladin’s army. This decision then set in train the events of the subsequent battle, known to us as the battle of Hattin. The battle unfolded as follows. Guy’s forces departed from Saffuriya early on 3 July and became bogged down in heavy fighting as the Templar rearguard came under heavy attack from Saladin’s cavalry. The army was eventually forced to make camp for the night at the settlement of Maskana. The following day (4 July) the Franks attempted to continue their advance on Tiberias, with the Templars—now seemingly in the vanguard—attempting to carve a road through to their destination.145 Saladin’s forces moved to block their road and the Templars proved unable to break through their ranks—the suggestion being made that they had been insufficiently supported by friendly forces. The Frankish army was then driven back and compelled to take refuge among the rocks of the Horns of Hattin. Guy’s army soon became surrounded and was destroyed after many hours of fighting, which included several determined Frankish cavalry charges.146 Saladin’s victory then precipitated the near-complete collapse of the Crusader States and by extension the launch of the Third Crusade. A crucial factor often associated with this Frankish military disaster was the lack of water available to the Franks during their march on Tiberias coupled with Saladin’s ability to exacerbate the problem by lighting fires which drove smoke into the mouths of the dehydrated Franks, and pouring huge quantities of water onto the grass in deliberate mockery of their plight. Typically, when historians have reviewed the battle they have focused their attention on the fundamental importance of Guy’s decision to initiate the relief march to Tiberias; this being the act which led to his subsequent defeat. Guy is often presented as a harassed king, caught between rival political factions; his ­pol­it­ical opponents centred on Raymond III of Tripoli demanding that the army should not march on Tiberias, even though the count’s own family were holed-up within its walls; and his political allies determined to slake their thirst for aggressive military action, insisting he march out against Saladin.147 Guy is typically 145  Several sources attest to the presence of the Templars in the rearguard on the 3 July (Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, 146) and then their presence in the vanguard on 4 July (William of Newburgh, ‘Historia Rerum Anglicarum’, Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I, ed. R. Howlett, vol. 1, RS LXXXII (London, 1884), 258; Ansbert, ‘Historia’, 2; possibly also: ‘Gesta Henrici Secundi’, vol. 2, 11). 146  For recreations of the battle see: B. Kedar, ‘The battle of Ḥ at ̣t ̣īn revisited’, The Horns of Ḥ at ̣t ̣īn, ed. B. Kedar (Jerusalem, 1992), 190–207; France, Hattin, 64–101. 147  For discussion on this decision see: France, Hattin, 86–7; Baldwin, ‘The decline and fall of Jerusalem’, 603; Edbury, ‘Propaganda and faction’, 173; M. Ehrlich, ‘The battle of Hattin: a chronicle of a defeat foretold’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 5 (2007), 29.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  185 presented as a weak and faction-ridden king unable either to unify his kingdom’s nobles or to reign in his own supporters. Historians have also invoked the ­earlier 1183 campaign, suggesting that Guy’s supposed reluctance to fight a major battle during this earlier campaign—and the serious political consequences for his career arising from his lack of pugnacity—compelled him to be much more as­sert­ive in 1187 so as to preserve his newly acquired throne.148 The kinds of questions asked by historians include: Why did Guy march out into a largely waterless zone in mid-July?149 Why didn’t Guy simply stay at his strong location in Saffuriya or withdraw to Acre as Raymond suggested? And less asked but equally pertinent: why did Guy consider a march straight through the centre of one of the most powerful armies raised by any Muslim ruler in this era to be an achievable feat? The aura of folly and the dithering of a weak personality hover above this particular set of debates and yet there is little about Guy’s conduct either before or after Hattin to suggest that he lacked either determination or ability.150 In the years following Hattin he proved himself to be a very able commander both at the siege of Acre (during the Third Crusade) and later when Richard I of England trusted him enough to give him responsibility for the conquest of much of the Isle of Cyprus; a campaign he completed with remarkable speed (and brutality).151 Likewise, as shown above, Guy’s earlier actions in 1183 speak clearly of his military competence as a commander. How then is his behaviour at Hattin to be interpreted? Reviewing the military history of the Near East, a number of longstanding ­patterns may help to explain Guy’s choices. To begin, a point that needs to be better recognized is that it was exceptionally rare for Frankish rulers not to relieve beleaguered fortresses under their jurisdiction. This hardly ever happened. The history of the period 1099–1186 furnishes dozens of occasions when Turkish armies attacked frontier castles and, in such circumstances, the local Frankish ruler almost always attempted to march to their beleaguered garrison’s aid. There are a handful of exceptions, such as Raymond III of Tripoli’s refusal to march out and face Saladin’s attack on Tripoli in 1180, but these generally occurred when the aggressor possessed overwhelmingly superior forces.152 Of course

148  For discussion see: Smail, ‘Predicaments of Guy’, 173; Edbury, ‘Propaganda and faction’, 189. 149  For discussion on the springs and hydrology of the region see: Kedar, ‘The battle of Ḥ at ̣t ̣īn revisited’, 190–207. 150  For a negative verdict of Guy’s character see: Runciman, History of the Crusades, vol. 2, 424. Ehrlich describes him as having a ‘passive personality’: Ehrlich, ‘The battle of Hattin’, 28. Tibble lists Guy among those leaders who ‘failed to live up to the challenge of command’: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 31. 151  For Guy’s actions on Cyprus see: IP, 201–2. For the siege of Acre see: S.  Bennett, ‘Faith and Authority: Guy of Lusignan at the battle of Acre (4th October 1189)’, A Military History of the Mediterranean Sea: Aspects of War, Diplomacy, and Military Elites, ed. G.  Theotokis and A.  Yıldiz, History of Warfare CXVIII (Leiden, 2018), 231. 152 Lewis, Counts of Tripoli, 246.

186  The Crusader States and their Neighbours there were also occasions when a ruler had already been defeated and was incapable of rendering aid (such as following the battle of the Field of Blood in 1119) and moments when relief forces arrived too late (such as the attempted relief of Apamea in 1149), but at the very least rulers nearly always tried to relieve a besieged fortress provided they had the opportunity to do so.153 Of course it was politically essential that rulers should act in this way. The basic social architecture of the Crusader States was grounded on the reciprocal relationship between the king and his nobility. If a ruler should publicly refuse to aid one of his own noble’s castles at a time of crisis then he could expect to lose all credibility (and possibly his throne). In this way, when Raymond of Tripoli advanced the idea that Guy should not support Tiberias (a city which had not fallen to an enemy since its conquest during the First Crusade), his suggestion should be viewed as a goad, attempting to incite Guy to commit political suicide, rather than a serious tactical suggestion (as is often claimed). The second pattern is that Guy’s proposal to march on Tiberias, even though he would need to march straight through Saladin’s army, was actually entirely plausible given the Frankish army’s track record in previous decades. In essence, by setting out for Tiberias, Guy was proposing to conduct a ‘fighting march’ and such manoeuvres—as a means to convey an army intact from one location to another—nearly always worked. In 1147 the Jerusalemite army had managed to march all the way to Bosra and back again—a journey lasting several days—despite being attacked at almost every stage and frequently lacking water.154 In 1150 Baldwin III successfully marched from Tell Bashir to the Antiochene border whilst protecting a large group of refugees from the county of Edessa, despite being attacked by Nur al-Din.155 In 1183, as shown above, Guy himself managed to conduct a pair of fighting marches, to and from Tubanie; the latter taking place under heavy attack and with a starving army. All these marches were far longer than the journey from Saffuriya to Tiberias (c.30 kilometres).156 Compared with these other campaigns, the march on Tiberias must have seemed challenging (particularly given the July heat and the size of Saladin’s army) but by no means impossible. Frankish armies had a proven ability to pass straight ‘through the middle of the enemy companies’ (per medias hostium acies), as William of Tyre observed describing the 1147 Bosra expedition.157 It was ­generally possible to bisect a Turkish army in this way because Turkish light ­cavalry formations were ill suited to block the stolid advance of heavily armoured Frankish warriors reputed for their skill in hand-to-hand combat. The only previous occasion when a Frankish army failed to complete a fighting march pre-1187

153  IAA(C), vol. 2, 36.    154 WT, 723–33.   155  WT, 781–5. 156  Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 259. For this distance see: Kedar, ‘The battle of Ḥ at ̣t ̣īn revisited’, 194. 157  Latin text: WT, 727. For other examples see: Smail, Crusading Warfare, 156.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  187 was in 1146 when Joscelin II attempted to conduct such a manoeuvre during the Frankish evacuation from the city of Edessa.158 On this occasion, however, the Frankish army departing from Edessa became embattled almost as soon as it exited the gates and seems to have been poorly formed. It disintegrated when Joscelin broke formation to launch a cavalry charge against Nur al-Din’s forces. Thus, it is very much an exception to the rule. Overall, fighting marches were a tried and tested approach to campaigning and so the idea that the Franks could have realistically expected to cover the stretch from Saffuriya to Tiberias gains credibility. It could reasonably have been anticipated that, as with previous fighting marches, Saladin’s army would only be able to impede but not block their progress (as Guy had found in 1183). Saladin’s own behaviour, at least on July 3 (the first day of the battle) implies that he may have believed the same thing because he focused his attention on the Christian army’s rearguard and actually brought his main forces behind the Christian army rather than blocking their line of advance.159 It is quite possible that he envisaged strafing but not dismembering the Franks in this encounter, moving only to a blocking position on 4 July when it became clear that the Franks were in a severely weakened state. The third pattern is that the Franks were actually well accustomed to the rigours of campaigning in waterless zones in the heat of a Near Eastern summer. Notably in a raid launched out of Darum towards Egypt in c.1183, a Frankish force staged an attack and then withdrew before an Ayyubid relief force, taking sanctuary at the only spring in the area. This seems to have been a calculated move because it drew the pursuing Ayyubid force away from water and in the event the Muslim force was only saved from acute dehydration by an unseasonal rain shower.160 Clearly then, there was plenty of contemporary understanding about the tactical importance of water sources and notably during the Bosra campaign in 1147 the Frankish army had been forced to cope for days with very little water. Returning to the Hattin campaign, whilst there certainly was not enough water to supply the entire army during the march on Tiberias, the assumption was probably made that the Frankish army would reach its destination as intended (like almost every other fighting march) and would then either be received by friendly forces in Tiberias’ citadel or would at least be able to resupply from Lake Tiberias. Moreover, Guy may well have been reassured by his own experiences in 1183 when he conducted a lengthy fighting march, returning from Tubanie to Safforie, frequently under attack from Turkish light cavalry. In short, the decision Guy made to relieve Tiberias was entirely reasonable according to the Eastern Frankish experiences in warfare against the Turks; it just so happened that it was also disastrous.

158  ASC2, 294–6.   159  Kedar, ‘The battle of Ḥ at ̣t ̣īn revisited’, 197. 160  IAA(C), vol. 2, 293.

188  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Viewed from the other side of the field, Saladin’s victory at Hattin is marked by a combination of deep political insight mixed with a willingness to embrace and incorporate the lessons learned by his predecessors. By attacking Tiberias he had effectively chosen his own battleground. He must have known that Frankish armies always relieved besieged towns and so by attacking Tiberias Saladin was forcing Guy either to wage war at a location of his own choosing (i.e. the land between Tiberias and Saffuriya) or to yield Tiberias without a fight (an act that would obviously have been deeply humiliating and would probably have resulted in a political crisis). In short, it was a masterstroke. Saladin’s subsequent tactics were conventional in every regard save one. His initial use of Turkish light cavalry forces to wear down the advancing Franks was absolutely standard. His use of smoke to disrupt the Franks in their encampment on the night of 3 July was likewise not without precedent—Nur al-Din used fire and smoke to disrupt the Frankish evacuation from Edessa in 1146 and Karbugha had used smoke back at the battle of Antioch in 1098 (albeit for a rather different purpose).161 Likewise his encirclement of the Frankish army on the Horns of Hattin was conventional for Turkish forces which often sought to surround their enemies.162 Later on 4 July—when Saladin was confronted by a charge led by Raymond III of Tripoli and simply divided his ranks, allowing the charge to pass harmlessly through his ranks—he was employing a tactic that both his uncle and his predecessor Nur al-Din had deployed previously (see below, section ‘Learning to Defeat Frankish Heavy Cavalry’). Even his use of dehydration was conventional and there are many reports of Turkish armies destroying wells or cutting off water supplies, both when fighting the Franks from the Crusader States or when degrading crusading armies crossing Anatolia. The one aspect of Saladin’s tactics that was truly revolutionary was his belief— correct in the event—that he could effectively block a Frankish fighting march’s line of advance. This had never been done before. No Turkish/Ayyubid ruler had ever tackled a fighting march head on. Saladin’s willingness to try such a daring venture on 4 July effectively challenged one of the core conventions underpinning the Frankish battle plan. As shown above, the 1146 fighting march from Edessa collapsed under prolonged harassment, but Nur al-Din did not actually try to bar its road. Exactly how Saladin compelled the Franks to stop their advance and then force it to turn aside is unclear. Most of the surviving sources focus their attention on the epic culmination of the campaign on the Horns of Hattin later that day, often alluding only sketchily to heavy fighting which compelled the Franks to turn away from Tiberias. It seems likely however that the abandonment of the fighting march could only have been achieved with the assistance of large 161 1098: GF, 69; OV, vol. 5, 114; 1146: ASC2, 296. 162 Raymond of Aguilers reports this practice as standard practice during the First Crusade: RA, 52.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  189 numbers of highly proficient and heavily armoured warriors who could meet the Frankish heavy infantry and cavalry in hand-to-hand combat on roughly equal terms. This is the most probable scenario and it tallies with Saladin’s known development of elite cavalry forces (see below, section ‘The Combatants’). Viewed against the backdrop of decades of cross-cultural warfare, the battle of  Hattin changes in shape and significance. Guy was no fool. He was an able commander who made a series of decisions that were entirely reasonable based on the Eastern Franks’ military experiences to date. Conventional military wisdom would have confirmed three things for Guy: (1) he had to relieve Tiberias— it was a standing military expectation that he should do so; (2) it was reasonable to believe that he could reach Tiberias quickly, despite the lack of water; (3) and based on received wisdom it was fair to suggest that Saladin could not stop him from doing so. His execution of this plan shows no obvious flaws in his leadership, his personal bravery, or his troops’ willingness to accept his commands; in that he fought a determined campaign, engaged personally in combat, and his army remained willing to follow his commands in the most straightened of ­circumstances until well into the second day. Saladin for his part made effective use of existing Turkish tactics to defeat the Franks, but the factor which sets him apart from his predecessors was his recognition that he now had the tools to stop a Frankish fighting march in its tracks. Tactically, this is why he won the battle of Hattin.

Fighting Pitched Battles In late 1133 King Fulk of Jerusalem led an army north to the principality of Antioch. The situation in Antioch was highly complex at this point. The death of Bohemond II in 1130 had created a vacuum of power and two aristocratic factions seem to have emerged; one centred around those who wanted to look to Jerusalem for support and one linked to the former prince’s wife, Princess Alice. By 1132 Alice could draw upon a substantial group of supporters including the counts of Edessa and Tripoli. Their willingness to defy Jerusalemite influence had provoked Fulk to force them into submission during this same year, even taking the field against the Tripolitan army near Rugia. By 1133 matters were even more complicated due to reports of Turkish forces massing on the outskirts of Aleppo. These troops were commanded by Sawar, Zangi’s lieutenant in Aleppo, whose army was swollen by Turkmen allies.163 Turkmen incursions were growing in frequency at this time with further attacks against Tripoli, Antioch, and the Arab Banu Kilab tribe (rulers of Aleppo before the Turkish invasions).164 From Fulk’s

163  IQ, 223; WT, 638–9.    164  IQ, 215, 221; KAD, 664–5.

190  The Crusader States and their Neighbours perspective, these overlapping dangers warranted a response so he marched again to the north. By the time that Fulk’s army reached the Antiochene borderlands near Harim, the Turks were gathered in two main groups: one outside Aleppo and another near Qinnesrin (Chalcis).165 Fulk then waited to see if Sawar would attack him on friendly territory, but nothing happened. Soon afterwards Fulk was joined by Joscelin II of Edessa and the two leaders launched an aggressive incursion into Aleppan territory, sufficient to sting the Turks into action. Once they were sure that Sawar was ready to meet them in battle, the Franks executed a tactical withdrawal. The Turks set out in pursuit and the Franks continued to retreat until they had traversed a wide open plain, at which point they turned and staged a decisive cavalry charge.166 The Turkish forces were heavily defeated and Fulk and Joscelin followed up their victory by raiding Aleppo’s hinterlands.167 The battle of Qinnesrin, fought in early 1134,168 has not received much attention from scholars, perhaps because it was so unremarkable in its impact. Fulk’s victory did not halt the Turks’ incursions into Antioch and the principality lost many of its frontier fortresses to Sawar’s attacks in the next year (see Chapter 4). Fulk’s success added no territory to the Crusader States and his sole conquest during this campaign—the castle of Qusair—was taken before the battle.169 The battle’s most striking quality was the eagerness with which Fulk sought battle. Fulk could have shadowed Sawar’s forces by simply maintaining his position near Harim. Instead he voluntarily provoked an unnecessary pitched battle by marching into Aleppan territory directly towards a large conglomeration of Turkmen tribes. He evidently wanted to fight. This example is notable because typically Frankish commanders have been described by historians as being reluctant to fight major battles. They have been captioned as ‘the most cautious of all men in war’ as Usama ibn Munqidh once observed.170 According to Smail, once the Franks had secured their initial conquests in the early decades of the twelfth century (ending in 1127), it was no longer in their interests to risk fighting big battles and so they tended to avoid such encounters where possible.171

165  WT, 639. 166  MS, 649–50. For an account of the Turkmen leaders killed during the battle see: al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 132. 167  IQ, 223. 168  For a useful discussion on the dating of this battle see: Phillips, Defenders, 49 (ftn 24). 169 MS, 649.   170  Translation from: UIM, 25. 171 Smail, Crusading Warfare, 139. See also: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 51, 54; Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 9. Theotokis, however, has noted that not all commanders in Western Christendom were battle averse, noting how eagerly the Southern Italian/Sicilian Normans sought out battle: Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 115. For a survey of the debates surrounding the willingness of commanders from Western Christendom to fight pitched battles see: H.  Nicholson, Medieval Warfare: Theory and Practice of War in Europe, 300–1500 (Basingstoke, 2004), 135.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  191 There are good reasons why historians have drawn these conclusions. Battles were high-risk events in which a serious defeat could have catastrophic consequences. If a Frankish army suffered major losses then it could take a long time to raise a new force or await reinforcements and, during the interval, the victorious enemy, along with any number of other opportunistic neighbours, could seize or despoil large swaths of territory.172 Hattin is naturally the prime example highlighting the potential impact of a major defeat, but the Antiochene/Edessan defeat at Harran in 1104 provides almost as good an example with substantial chunks of Frankish territory being seized by various other foes in the following months.173 Likewise, if large numbers of Frankish nobles should be taken captive in battle then the costs involved in ransoming them could be very high, only compounding the resources lost in the battle itself. More seriously, the death of a ruler in battle (such as Roger of Salerno in 1119, Bohemond II in 1130, or Raymond of Poitiers in 1149) could likewise provoke a dangerous interregnum and/or succession crisis. Essentially, the Crusader States were fairly small political entities, clinging to the Levantine coast and a long way from help. They lacked both the territorial depth or population reserves to bounce back easily after a major defeat; thus creating strong incentives for exercising caution when contemplating major encounters.174 In light of the substantial array of arguments militating against fighting pitched battles, Fulk’s behaviour at Qinnesrin looks decidedly odd —provoking a major encounter for so little gain. It could be argued that we are seeing here the act of an aggressive and newly arrived commander from Western Europe unfamiliar with the exigencies surrounding the conduct of war in the East, but on reflection this kind of argument does not work. Not only does Fulk’s rather lacklustre military record speak against the idea that he was an aggressive commander (see Chapter 4), but as a tactical exercise, the battle of Qinnesrin was brilliantly executed, suggesting the guiding hand of an experienced Levantine commander. It involved an initial incursion—aggressive enough to provoke a response but not so daredevil as to cause an immediate battle. Then a staged withdrawal to a battlefield suitable for Frankish heavy cavalry—conducted fast enough to prevent the Turks catching up but not so fast as to leave them behind. Then a decisive and precisely timed cavalry charge.175 This was a very competent piece of military manoeuvring, indicating a commander long accustomed both to fighting the Turks and the region’s topography. It is possible that the whole thing may have been Joscelin II’s doing. He certainly had the background. Whoever was in charge, this was no cavalier death-or-glory assault; this was carefully staged. So why then did Fulk choose to

172 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 320. 173  Asbridge has created some excellent maps showing the extent to which Antiochene territory shrank after Harran: Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 54–8. 174  Smail, ‘Predicaments of Guy’, 169.    175  MS, 649–50.

192  The Crusader States and their Neighbours provoke a battle? The answer to this probably lies in Fulk’s troubled circumstances within the Crusader States; his quarrels with Alice of Antioch; his skirmish with the count of Tripoli in 1132; his former estrangement from Joscelin II of Edessa; the growing factions within Jerusalem itself.176 His political position was perilous. This battle, however, repaired relations with Edessa and allowed him to march back to Antioch as a hero—laden with plunder (although admittedly he seems to have overplayed his hand and annoyed the Antiochene Franks because Alice of Antioch was back in power the following year).177 Presumably it also strengthened his hand once he returned to Jerusalem wreathed with the laurels of victory. In short, this was a battle focused on healing internal wounds. The battle of Qinnisrin should therefore serve to problematize any sweeping assertion that the Eastern Franks were averse to fighting big battles. There were times when they deliberately sought battle and times when they did not. There are trends to their conduct in war, but little consistent behaviour. Another problematic verdict is the idea that battles were rare in the Crusader States.178 Discussing warfare in Western Europe, many historians have pointed out how rarely commanders chanced major encounters; many following Vegetius’ advice and actively avoiding battle, viewing it as a ‘last restort’.179 Historians have noted, for example, the disastrous consequences of a major defeat and, by contrast, the advantages of less risky and more profitable raiding campaigns. Consequently, battles occurred very infrequently. Morillo suggests that the Anglo-Norman kings fought four to seven battles between 1066–1135;180 Gillingham argues that Henry II of England did not fight any battles, and that Richard I only fought two or three; while Philip Augustus fought only one (and these were all warlike monarchs).181 As Strickland commented in 1996, the consensus that Western commanders avoided battle has become so ubiquitous among historians that it could be called an ‘orthodoxy’.182 Since then the debate has gone back and forth. Rogers has contended that battle-seeking commanders were more common than previously thought and stresses that the rewards for a victorious commander could be considerable, while the chivalric pressures to fight battles

176  WT, 635–7; MS, 649–50. For the development of factions within the kingdom of Jerusalem see Mayer, ‘Studies in the history of Queen Melisende’, 93–182; Mayer, ‘The new men of King Fulk’, 1–25. 177  MS, 650; WT, 639; al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 132. 178 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 51, 133. 179  J. Gillingham, ‘Richard I and the science of war in the Middle Ages’, Anglo-Norman Warfare: Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman Military Organization and Warfare, ed. M. Strickland (Woodbridge, 1992), 198. 180 Morillo, Warfare under the Anglo-Norman Kings, 144–5. Rogers by extension states that William the Conqueror participated in only one battle before 1066: Rogers, ‘The Vegetian “Science of Warfare” in the Middle Ages’, 13. 181  Gillingham, ‘Richard I and the science of war’, 196–7. 182 M. Strickland, War and Chivalry: the Conduct and Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217 (Cambridge, 1996), 43. (ftn 69) This comment was noted in particular by Rogers in: ‘The Vegetian “Science of Warfare” in the Middle Ages’, 3.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  193 could also be decisive.183 Gillingham then issued a rejoinder in which, among various arguments, he challenged the idea that honour and chivalry necessarily impelled commanders to seek battle.184 The debate remains open.185 One of the more notable features of this debate is that Smail’s arguments concerning battles in the Crusader States have been given centre stage—not least by Gillingham—who repeatedly claims that Smail’s characterization of the Eastern Franks’ ‘ultra-cautious strategy’ was a starting point for the debate about pitched ­battles in the West.186 So this present book will reverse the direction of flow in this particular conversation and consider the extent to which Smail-inspired arguments about Western European commanders and their approach to fighting battles can in fact be applied to the Latin East. For the reasons supplied above, it might seem natural to believe that this same aversion towards pitched battles would indeed hold true for the Crusader States especially because—as will be explained—the disincentives steering commanders to avoid battles in Western Christendom were generally greater in the distant and strategically vulnerable Crusader States. Nevertheless, this conclusion is challenged almost immediately by the blunt fact that between 1099 and 1187 the Crusader States took part in a total of thirty-nine pitched battles (based on the criteria outlined in the Introduction). Battles were not rare at all. They were common. Indeed, reflecting on the early years of the kingdom of Jerusalem, William of Malmesbury paused his narrative of events to comment ‘There is one point I  would emphasise: how often he [Baldwin I] staked all on a major battle with scanty forces’; clearly the conspicuous frequency with which the Franks gave ­battle was not lost on their counterparts in the West (Table 6.2).187 Reviewing the data above, several trends emerge. To begin, despite a bulge in major battles during the first decade, encounters including both Frankish vic­tor­ ies and defeats were spread reasonably evenly—taken overall—for the remaining period right up until Hattin. There was no obvious swing in the outcome of pitched battles against the Franks over the course of the twelfth century; thus this data does not support the idea that battles became less frequent or that the Crusader States were in long-term military decline. Moreover, in terms of their 183  Rogers, ‘The Vegetian “Science of Warfare” in the Middle Ages’, 1–19. See also: L.  Villalon, ‘Battle-seeking, battle-avoiding or perhaps just battle-willing?’ Applying the Gillingham paradigm to Enrique II of Castile’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 8 (2010), 131–54. 184  J.  Gillingham, ‘Rejoinder: “Up with Orthodoxy!” In defense of Venetian warfare’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 2 (2003), 154. 185  For a good summary of the historiography see: J.  France, ‘Battle, Historiography of ’, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medieval Warfare and Medieval Technology, vol. 1 (Oxford, 2010), 128–9. See also the crucial contributions made by Morillo in: Warfare under the Anglo-Norman Kings, 2; and ‘Battle-seeking: the contexts and limits of Vegetian strategy’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 1 (2002), 22. 186 Quotation: Gillingham, ‘Richard I and the science of war’, 197. See also: Gillingham, ‘Rejoinder’, 153. 187  Translation: WM, vol. 2, 681.

Table 6.2  Battles fought between the Franks and their Turkish and Fatimid neighbours (1099–1187) 188 Conflict

Decade 1099–1109 1110–19 1120–9

K of Jerusalem (victory against Fatimids) K of Jerusalem (victory against Turks) K of Jerusalem (defeated by Fatimids) K of Jerusalem (defeated by Turks) C of Tripoli (victory against Turks) C of Tripoli (defeated by Turks) P of Antioch (victory against Turks) P of Antioch (defeated by Turks) C of Edessa (victory against Turks) C of Edessa (defeated by Turks) Other189 Total Frankish victories against the Turks (16) Total Frankish defeats against the Turks (15) Total Frankish victories against the Fatimids (6) Total Frankish defeats by the Fatimids (1)

4

1 1 1 3 1 1 5 2 4 1

1130–9

1140–9 1150–9 1160–9

1 1

1

1 1 1

1 2

1 1

2 1

1 1 3 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1170–9

1180–7

2

1

1

1

2 1

1 1

1

1 1 2

1 3

1 1

1 2 1

188  Please note that this graph shows all the battles fought within or near to the Crusader States. The data here is assigned by geography, thus a battle conducted by the king of Jerusalem out of Antiochene territory (such as Qinnisrin) would show up here as a victory assigned to the principality of Antioch. 189  This is the battle fought near Tell Bashir in 1108 involving Turkish and Frankish contingents on both sides. Given the complexity of the event it defies easy categorization.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  195 outcome, the Franks seem to have encountered both victory and defeat relatively equally against the Turks (sixteen victories against fifteen defeats). Only against the Fatimids were they overwhelmingly successful. Another pattern raised by an analysis of the Franks’ approach to pitched battles is that 74 per cent (twenty-seven) of these battles took place while the Franks were on the defensive (confronting or handling an incursion into their lands). Only 18 per cent (seven) took place during offensive campaigns whilst the remaining 8 per cent (three) are difficult to classify. This is a striking distribution which sheds some light on the Franks’ approach to giving battle. To begin, let us explore the battles fought during offensive campaigns. The first battle of this kind took place during Bohemond’s advance on Melitene in 1100, having apparently been offered the city by its governor Gabriel. The second is Baldwin II’s advance against Damascus in 1126 which resulted in a battle at Marj al-Suffar. The third is Qinnisrin in 1134. The fourth is Baldwin III’s running battle during his advance upon, and retreat from, Bosra in 1147 (he had been invited to take control by the town’s governor).190 The Franks fought two battles in the Nile Delta during the 1160s, one against a Fatimid faction (1163) and one against Shirkuh (1167), and the seventh was fought against Turan Shah in 1176 during an attack on Damascus. Common factors connecting many of these battles include the fact that all these campaigns were launched either with a serious expectation of making substantial territorial gains or in response to the temporary incapacity of their opponents. The Melitene (1100), Damascus (1126), Bosra (1147), and Egyptian battles (1163, 1167) were all fought over major prizes, either an im­port­ ant town/city or Egypt itself. Most of these battles took place at time when the Franks had been explicitly encouraged to stage a territorial takeover or could expect assistance from a local faction. The battle against Turan Shah occurred when Saladin was preoccupied with his ongoing conflict with the Zangids far to the north; thus the Franks were prepared to give battle because their foe was vulnerable. In this way, the Franks were clearly prepared to fight major battles on offensive campaigns but only if there were very substantial opportunities on offer sufficient to warrant this level of risk. Within this analysis Qinnisrin stands out as something of an anomaly, given that it seems to have been fought to quell internal problems, rather than to secure territorial advances, but it is notable that Baldwin II also faced internal dissent in the 1120s which may go some way to explaining his appetite for a battle in 1126.191 It may also be noted that all of the battles fought during offensive campaigns—whether the Franks were victorious in battle or not—ubiquitously failed to secure any long-term territorial gains, despite the fact that they had mostly been initiated in the hope of conquering a major town or city.

190 IQ, 276.   191  Murray, ‘Baldwin II and his nobles’, 60–85.

196  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Defensive battles were far more common and it is notable that the vast majority of these unfolded in a broadly similar way. This is as follows: (stage 1) Turkish or Fatimid forces invade; (stage 2) they besiege a major stronghold; and (stage 3) a battle occurs when the Franks try to relieve the garrison; 21 out of 27 of these defensive campaigns fit this kind of pattern. This was therefore by far the most common scenario in which the Eastern Franks gave battle and in such a context they often had little choice but to fight. Ultimately, if an invading enemy was not discouraged from giving battle by the combination of a Frankish field army mustered on its home territory and in close proximity to a stronghold (the strongest possible deterrent) then battle would often ensue.192 Admittedly, there were alternative courses of action for a Frankish relieving army in this scenario which did not involve a major battle. A Frankish commander could withdraw entirely, abandon the embattled garrison and take refuge in other strongholds, thus allowing the invader to move unopposed across friendly territory. The Crusader States hardly ever practised this approach; the handful of examples that might be cited include Saladin’s invasion of Antioch after Hattin or—much later—the Mamluks’ ruinous and generally unopposed attacks on the Crusader States in the 1260s; moments when the superiority of the Ayyubid/Mamluk forces was so great that it simply was not possible to contemplate meeting the invader in battle. Moreover, the continued existence of the Crusader States required the maintenance of a fearsome reputation; this could not be achieved by adopting a posture that would be deemed as cowardly both by their enemies and their own troops. The geographical footprint of their states was very long and narrow (Ernoul comments that at its narrowest it was a mere two leagues in width) and so there was little scope to withdraw and regroup.193 Moreover, along the shoreline, the three coastal Crusader States had highly developed agricultural networks which represented a major economic asset that could not easily be abandoned to enemy raiders.194 Consequently, when faced by an enemy who was not deterred by the defensive combination of a Frankish field army operating in close proximity to major castle, then they had little choice but to fight whether they wanted to or not. Occasionally, it might be possible to shadow an opposing force, thereby holding it at arm’s length without actually giving battle (as discussed above), but this was a difficult position to adopt; highly dependent on local topography and the 192 For discussion on similar situations in Western Europe: Rogers, ‘The Vegetian “Science of Warfare” in the Middle Ages’, 15. Ellenblum argues that most of Jerusalem’s ‘big battles’ between 1120 and 1160 were ‘waged on Muslim ground and in proximity to centres of Muslim population, and most of them ended in decisive victory for the Franks’ (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 164). Regarding the location of battles in this era: for this period and for Jerusalem alone he is correct, but Jerusalem during the years directly before and after largely fought battles on home soil. Moreover, the other Frankish states also generally fought battles on their own land. I would also contend that even between 1120 and 1160 the Jerusalemite Franks experienced both victory and defeat in roughly equal measure. 193  Chronique d’Ernoul, 27.   194  For discussion see: Major, Medieval Rural Settlements.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  197 composition of the opposing forces. At times, garrisons which were confident that they could hold out unassisted in the face of an enemy attack might encourage their masters not to march to their aid, because to do so might risk a major encounter. Ibn al-Athir claims that in 1157 the beleaguered garrison in Harim wrote to the prince of Antioch saying ‘We can hold the castle. We are not powerless. But do not put yourself at risk by an engagement. If he [Nur al-Din], defeats you, he will take this [castle] and others. The right course is to play a waiting game.’195 This, however, would only have been possible infrequently when circumstances permitted. In Western Europe, harassing an enemy’s supply lines was a plausible alternative to battle, but for the Eastern Franks this was only occasionally possible given their Turkish enemies’ considerable advantage as light cavalry skirmishers. In summary, the Franks were cautious about fighting battles. They only risked major encounters during offensive campaigns when the potential gains offered by such a battle were substantial; often when a local faction was actually offering to hand over a stronghold or settlement. It was far more common however for the Franks to fight pitched battles when they had no other choice, whilst in a defensive posture. As such, this analysis bears out John France’s verdict that: ‘In the first place, they [the Eastern Franks] were prepared to engage in battle to a degree really unknown in Europe. They were often tactically cautious, and certainly did not choose battle lightly, but the military situ­ation in which they lived demanded a readiness to confront their enemies, and they did so with remarkable frequency.’196 Turning from the Franks to their opponents, it is clear that both the Fatimids and the Turks were far more willing to risk their forces in battle than their Frankish counterparts.197 The fact that the vast majority of battles were fought during offensive Fatimid or Turkish campaigns, and generally on Frankish ­territory, implies that their commanders were frequently ‘battle seeking’. This should not imply that either the Turks or Fatimids carelessly threw their forces into battle with little regard for the probability of success. There are many ex­amples of both Fatimid and Turkish commanders deliberately refusing battle. Examples of Turkish leaders refusing battle in the early years of the twelfth century include campaigns fought in 1100, when Danishmendid withdrew from Melitene when faced with the imminent arrival of an Edessa force, and Tughtakin’s withdraw from the fort of al-Akma in the county of Tripoli in 1109 following news of reinforcements.198 Likewise the Fatimids refused battle during their invasion in 1118. Even so, the preponderance of battles fought during their offensive 195  Translation from: IAA(C), vol. 2, 79. 196  France, ‘The Crusades and Military History’, 350–1. See also: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 5 para. 2 (online version). 197  For an alternative view see: Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 163, 225. 198  Melitene: FC, 347–8. Al-Akma: IQ, 88.

198  The Crusader States and their Neighbours campaigns implies that their appetite for such encounters was substantially greater than that of the Franks. This is a pattern that warrants attention. Certainly there does not seem to have been any long-term or historic regional culture of fighting pitched battles in the Levant and Northern Syria that might explain their more aggressive postures. As Theotokis has demonstrated, the struggle between the Byzantine Empire and its various Arab opponents pre-950 included few pitched battles and he convincingly argues that both sides were cautious about committing their armies to the uncertainties of a major encounter. His verdict is broadly borne out by the Byzantine military manuals for this era, which, whilst not battle averse per se, invited gen­ erals to exercise considerable reflection before taking this kind of risk.199 Why then were the Fatimids and Turks so much more prepared to fight battles than earlier Near Eastern commanders? With regard to the Fatimids’ appetite for battle with the Franks, perhaps the most illuminating statistics to consider as a starting point are the figures supplied by contemporaries for the relative army sizes of the opposing forces (see Table 2.1). Exactly how much the Fatimids outnumbered their opponents naturally varied from battle to battle and nor can we be certain of the accuracy of the figures supplied by contemporaries; nonetheless historians generally accept that the Fatimid forces were substantially more numerous than the Franks in almost every venture. Moreover, the Fatimids were fighting on familiar territory; land that the Crusaders had recently seized but which their empire had considered its own for decades. It must have been very tempting, at least in the early campaigns, for Fatimid strategists to assume that the small and poorly supplied kingdom of Jerusalem and its numerically unimpressive army could simply be swatted away. The fact that they so routinely failed in this objective should not belie the fact that, to a pragmatic eye, it could not have been assumed that an embryonic state such as the kingdom of Jerusalem in its early years would prove able to resist the might of the Fatimid Empire. Another factor in this equation may well have been the fact that the Fatimids suffered very few territorial losses as a result of any of their defeats. Often, a major defeat might result in some raiding around Ascalon or perhaps a brief attempt at a blockade on the city, but a Frankish army never responded to a Fatimid invasion by staging a counter-offensive in strength into the Nile Delta. The kingdom of Jerusalem may have aspired to conquer Egypt, but this could not be carried out on a whim or as a knee-jerk response to a battlefield victory near Jaffa or Ramla. Invading Egypt required long-term planning and, most importantly, substantial naval backing from one of the big Italian maritime cities. Unlike the Fatimids, who could cross the Sinai and then regroup at Asacalon, the Franks had no base 199  For discussion on this point see: Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics, 54. See also: Morillo, ‘Battle-seeking: the contexts and limits of Vegetian strategy’, 24.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  199 in the Nile Delta and so considerable logistical planning would be needed if a major campaign were to be contemplated. In this way, the Fatimids could attack the Franks with relative impunity; if they won they could reap the rewards; if they lost then they had little to fear. By extension, during this period, the Fatimids faced few other threats. There were occasional Berber attacks on their western frontiers, such as the raid which took place in the spring of 1123,200 and there was always a long-term danger that the Sicilian Normans might seek to expand their North African conquests eastwards towards Egypt,201 but this is about the extent of the threats they faced. Consequently, they could concentrate their attention on the Franks, safe in the knowledge that if they suffered defeat then there was no danger that another enemy might take advantage of their temporary incapacity. The Turks are rather more complicated and there are clear variations in attitude among the many commanders encountered by the Franks. Some, such as Tughtakin (after the First Crusade) and Ridwan of Aleppo (at least after 1105), were cautious about fighting the Franks and only did so when the odds were de­cisive­ly stacked in their favour; others were more eager. Still, taken overall, the Turks seem to have been far more battle willing than their Frankish adversaries.202 This should not imply for a moment that they lacked caution when calculating whether a battle justified the risk; as shown above, they were fully prepared to pull back if they considered it in their interests—only that the factors affecting such a decision were rather different. Reflecting on the military track record of the Seljuk Empire as a whole—from its origins in the eleventh century through to its lurching decline in the ­mid-twelfth—it is noticeable that its history is punctuated by a continual series of major pitched battles. The vast majority of these were conducted in Iraq and Persia, often in the vicinity of the important cities of Hamadhan, Baghdad, Isfahan, and Rayy. To give some idea of the frequency of these clashes it is striking that, during the civil wars that erupted following the death of Sultan Malik Shah in 1092, up to the accession of Sultan Mohammed in 1105, the Turks fought fifteen battles in their core territories in Iraq and Western Persia (and this excludes their battles against the Franks or against other foes ranged around their per­im­eter). These battles were generally fought between contenders for the Seljuk throne (and their satellites). In circumstances where two or more individuals were wrestling for authority over a single throne—perhaps rather like William and Harald at Hastings, to take a Western example—it was often in the interests of both/all parties to engage in battle as soon as possible. A decisive victory dangled the prospect of a complete victory to the victor, whilst continued delay or  the 200  IQ, 168. 201  For discussion see: A. Metcalfe, The Muslims of Medieval Italy, New Edinburgh Islamic Surveys (Edinburgh, 2009), ch. 8. 202  This conclusion differs from Ellenblum who argues (with regard to the 70s and 80s) that Muslim armies were rarely willing to confront a Frankish force ‘face on’ (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 163).

200  The Crusader States and their Neighbours avoidance of battle could seriously damage all the contenders’ claims. Procrastination in seeking a final resolution would create space for each contender’s supporters to demand greater concessions for their continued assistance and diminish their often limited resources. Delay might also enable distant powers to take advantage of the turmoil or enable local powers to assert themselves against central authority, thereby degrading the rights and privileges of the very office to which they aspired. In this environment, fighting big battles as quickly as possible was very much in all the contenders’ interests. In many ways, this situation was a product of the Turks’ approach to inheritance.203 On the death of a Turkish leader, there was frequently a great deal of fighting as the late ruler’s male relatives and lieutenants attempted to wrest as much control as possible over as many of the available assets as they could seize. This could result in prolonged periods of civil war, including the abovementioned battles fought following Malik Shah’s death, but similar examples can be found in twelfth-century Syria and Anatolia. Civil wars and infighting followed the death of the Seljuk Sultan Qilij Arslan I in 1107 and even more so following the death of the Danishmendid ruler Mohammed in 1142.204 Saladin’s usurpation of Nur al-Din’s lands can com­fort­ably be placed within this tradition. Even the relatively orderly transition of power—comparatively speaking—following Zangi’s death involved a tense period of deal making and suspicion205 coupled with attacks from neighbouring powers including: Antioch, the Artuqids, and Damascus as well as a rebellion in Edessa and raiding from Turkmen tribes. Michael the Syrian commented (about the period following his death) ‘things became chaotic and the Turkish robbers spread throughout Zangi’s domain plundering everything without mercy’.206 There seems to have been a recognition that a Turkish ruler’s empire as a unitary entity rarely had a life expectancy much longer than the ruler himself and that—even in idealized circumstances—following his death it would be divided up between selected male heirs; more likely it would be ripped apart by a mixture of family members, local factions, adventurers, and neighbouring powers. As Ibn al-Qalanisi commented concerning Zangi’s passing: ‘the armies of the Atabek dispersed . . . his stores or money and rich treasuries were plundered and he himself was buried there without enshrouding until his body was removed, so it is said, to a mausoleaum near al-Raqqa’.207 Indeed, all the major Turkish (and Ayyubid) ­rulers of this period had to fend off multiple dynastic challenges from elite rivals to a far greater degree than their Frankish rivals. Such clashes were often clustered around the transition period from ruler to ruler, but they could take place at other times as well. 203  This tallies with Morillo’s argument which shows how cultural expectations can produce an environment in which battles occur more frequently: Morillo, ‘Battle-seeking: the contexts and limits of Vegetian strategy’, 31–41. 204  See: Cahen, The Formation of Turkey, 15–16, 21–2.    205  IAA(HA), 153–5. 206  Translation: MS, 669.    207  Translation: IQ, 271–2.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  201 Wars of this kind tended to polarize closely around individuals and families. It was the individual leader, the pretender, or more broadly the dynasty, to which the various Turkish power brokers adhered. Concepts of owing loyalty to a geographically defined state (i.e. the kingdom of Jerusalem) were not foregrounded in quite the same way. There seems to have been a sense of dynastic territory—the idea that an area of land belonged to the family, even if its ownership was contested or fragmented through infighting. There was also a growing sense during the twelfth century of Turkish rulers’ responsibility to the Islamic world and the interests of the Islamic community as a whole. Even so, internal frontiers and configurations of landholdings among Turkish rulers were temporary and could change rapidly with each passing generation.208 In this rather more fluid environment, it was incumbent on individual leaders, aspiring to gain or retain substantial power, to prove themselves in battle, using such set piece contests to decisively defeat dynastic rivals quickly, thereby proving and asserting their right to rule. Victories could send them soaring to the heights of authority; inaction through battle avoidance could be as fatal as defeat. This cultural context—a world in which battles were more routine and so closely meshed to discourses of authority and legitimacy—may go some way to explaining why the Turks were less concerned by the idea of risking a major encounters than their Frankish neighbours. Of course, by way of comparison, it should be pointed out that Frankish rulers, such as Fulk at Qinnisrin, were well aware of the vivifying effect that battlefield victories could have on their authority over subordinates; they too could be mo­tiv­ated by similar goals. Even so, there is a distinction. The generally more orderly transitions of power in the Crusader States—enabled in part by the unan­ imous conviction that Frankish states should be passed onto a single heir, rather than divided up between multiple heirs—served to place greater emphasis on the needs of the polity (county/principality/kingdom) rather than the objectives of rival families. This in turn would have been reinforced by the faith-led imperative to defend Christian territory. In this environment, where the expansion or contraction of a territorial state and its frontiers were a community’s primary concern, then there was a stronger incentive for caution in battle: victories rarely achieved more than marginal gains; defeats could be catastrophic. Battle avoidance was often the logical solution. There may also have been a tactical dimension to the differing Turkish/ Frankish appetites for battle. From a geopolitical perspective, victory and defeat had very different implications for Frankish and Turkish armies. A victorious Frankish army could expect to achieve very few gains following a battle. To take Qinnisrin as an example, Fulk raided Aleppo’s hinterland but that was the extent 208  There were some exceptions. The Artuqids in Mardin managed to maintain a long-term degree of stability in their rule over large parts of the Diyar Bakr although they too became embroiled in long-term bouts of infighting during periods of transition.

202  The Crusader States and their Neighbours of his post-conflict advance. This is typical. The Franks derived very little financial or territorial benefit from their victories. They might hope for a period of raiding, perhaps the (re)conquest of a border fort, but that is all. No battle post1099 paved the way for sweeping advances of the kind achieved by the First Crusade and the only Frankish victory which resulted in the conquest of multiple strongholds was Baldwin II’s victory in 1119 at Tell Danith which led to the reconquest of several settlements which had fallen only months before to Ilghazi. The explanation for this inability to capitalize on successes lies in part in the slowmoving nature of the Frankish war machine and the comparative speed of their opponents. In 1134, following Qinnisrin, Sawar managed to get back to Aleppo, raise a new force, and win a skirmish against a Frankish raiding force even before Fulk had withdrawn his troops from the city’s hinterland. Following the Frankish victories in both 1148 and 1163, Nur al-Din managed to regroup fast enough both to deter follow-up attacks and, on both occasions, to win a major victory over the Franks the following year. In geopolitical terms, victory in battle had little to offer the Franks. By contrast, the potential opportunities and risks for Turkish commanders when engaging in major battles were rather different. Turkish victories could pave the way for wide-scale raiding and the seizure of multiple strongholds; facilitated by fast-moving Turkmen cavalry and the slowness with which Frankish rulers were able either to regroup their forces or despatch reinforcements. Examples include the sweeping gains made following battles such as Harran (1104), the Field of Blood (1119), Hattin (1187), and to some extent Inab (1149). By contrast, defeats were not nearly so injurious in their consequences. As shown above, the Franks were very poor at capitalizing on their victories so there was little danger of territorial losses. Moreover, on the field of battle itself, following a Frankish victory, the defeated Turkish light cavalry could simply disperse. The Franks might give pursuit but they had little hope of catching many of the Turks’ fleetfooted mounts. Often they did not even try to pursue, fearing to fall into an ambush. During the First Crusade they were specifically advised not to pursue routed Turkish forces for this very reason.209 Usama ibn Munqidh likewise confirmed this noting ‘I have battled the Franks (may God confound them) in places and countries so numerous that I cannot count them, and I never once saw them defeat us and then persist in pursuing us.’210 The situation was very different for defeated Frankish armies.211 They could expect heavy casualties as the survivors, most of whom would have been on foot, sought to reach the safety of a friendly stronghold all the while being harassed by Turkish cavalry. The infantry were especially vulnerable to light cavalry pursuit and there are reports of heavy—sometimes total—casualties among footsoldiers 209 AC, 292.   210  Translation from: UIM, 253. 211 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 33–4, 44, 52.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  203 in 1113 near Tiberias, in 1124 at Manbij, in 1137 at Barin, in 1146 outside Edessa, in 1164 at Harim.212 In short, the Franks had a lot to lose and very little to gain from battle; a defeat could cost huge numbers of hard-to-replace troops—especially in offensive campaigns—as well as territorial loses that they could not afford; victory offered them very little beyond the basic fact of having won a victory. The Turks by contrast could absorb defeats relatively easily and, should the worst happen, had little reason to expect heavy casualties; victory however could lead to substantial gains. Taken overall, the Turks, Fatimids, and Franks had very different attitudes towards battles and their decision-making seems to have been grounded on differing rationales. None of these groups seems to have entered upon battles carelessly, but for reasons connected to culture, differing military tactics, and geopolitics, the Franks did tend to be far more cautious than their adversaries when confronted by the prospect of a major battle. Reflecting on the his­tori­og­ raphy surrounding battles in Western Christendom, the main point to make is that the Crusader States operated in a very different context to their kin in the West and were pitted againstvery different enemies.

Theoretical Approaches and Models concerning Warfare and Alliances in the Medieval Near East Reflecting on the Near East’s many wars during the twelfth century it is natural to consider the motives and objectives which caused them to take place. Why did the various protagonists fight their campaigns? A particularly contentious elem­ ent of this debate is to identify the role—if any—played by notions of holy war (whether Christian or Islamic) in: (1) determining the various configurations of alliances and wars spanning this region, or (2) as the impetus for war-making. Put crudely, were the wars of the Near East simply a matter of Crusade vs Jihad? In many ways, the above chapters have already demonstrated that the evolving alliances and conflicts that defined this period were a great deal more complex than any such simplistic interpretation, and the causes of war were determined by a broad array of factors, many of which had little or no relation to the demands of holy war. The Seljuk sultanate’s interventions in the Syrian region, for example, were guided in large part by the desire to impose control over the Turkish ­warlords and rebels who were cautiously seeking to extract themselves from the sultanate’s gravitational pull. The Byzantine expeditions into Cilicia sought to regain lost territory and compel the Franks to yield the much-coveted city of Antioch. The Turkmen tribes were generally thought to have been guided by the 212  1113: ME, 215; 1124: IAA(C), vol. 1, 249; 1137: IQ, 242, WT, 665; 1146: BH, vol. 1, 273; 1164: ASC2, 304.

204  The Crusader States and their Neighbours search for plunder and grazing. The many internecine conflicts fought among pretenders following the death of a Turkish ruler were seemingly guided by the desire to assert their rights—perceived or real—as that ruler’s successor. The list could go on. The most influential piece of work on this question in recent years has been the inspirational study by Michael Köhler on cross-cultural diplomacy conducted by Christian and Muslim rulers. He focuses on the various alliances established during this era and raises some highly thought provoking points. His argument is complex but his over-arching thesis is essentially that the battle lines in this period were determined primarily by pragmatism and necessity rather than any ingrained desire to wage war against a rival religion. A core idea in his thesis concerns the notion of ‘no-place’ in diplomacy. By this he means that rulers were perpetually aware of their need to join or reform networks of alliances so as to ensure their own continued existence and to avoid a situation in which there would be ‘no-place’ left for their own survival. So, for example, with regard to the Sultanate’s campaign into Syria in 1115 he demonstrates how the local Franks and Turks worked together to repel the sultanate’s army. His point being that if they had not done so then the sultan’s forces would have been in a position to crush each one individually, thereby leaving ‘no-place’ for their future existence.213 Other examples are plentiful. Damascus sought alliances with Jerusalem in the 1130s when threatened by Zangi because otherwise Zangi would have overthrown the city. The Franks agreed to render aid because they knew that if they refused then Zangi would grow too powerful and overthrow them in turn. The same process operated in reverse following Zangi’s death when the Damascenes allied with Zangi’s sons against Jerusalem in 1147 and later during the Second Crusade (to guarantee their own survival against Frankish expansionism), and then after the retreat of the Second Crusade they switched back to a Frankish alliance when Nur al-Din grew strong and began to press on Damascus’ northern borders.214 Likewise, the Fatimid Egyptians’ willingness to work alternately with the Franks and then with Shirkuh (Nur al-Din) in the 1160s, seeking at different times— unsuccessfully as it turned out—to maintain alliances that would safeguard their future, supports this argument.215 As Ibn al-Furat reported—using remarkably similar language—when reflecting on the Franks’ response to Shirkuh’s invasion of Egypt in 1166 ‘[if Shirkuh should take power] then there would remain no place for [the Franks]’.216 Köhler’s conclusion is that within the tortuous world of Near Eastern politics, rulers acted pragmatically, making alliances with any faction—co-religionists or not—if it would prevent a scenario in which they would become isolated and vulnerable. 213 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, passim.   214 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 173. 215 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 188–92. 216  Translation: Bora, Writing History in the Medieval Islamic World, 216.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  205 Kohler’s thesis is extremely well observed, and like any good thesis, it improves in many respects on closer inspection. This study has identified several other alliances forged during this period which fit his thesis very well. For example, in 1141–3 when Zangi was pressing north towards central Anatolia, the Artuqid leader Kara Arslan, Joscelin II of Edessa, and the Anatolian Seljuks began to work together knowing that if they did not then there would be ‘no place’ for any of them in the face of Zangi’s advances.217 Thus the same principle applies and works particularly well in defensive contexts where factions were driven by a need for security. The ‘no-place’ motive can also be observed in some offensive contexts as well. When the Franks attacked Aleppo in 1124–5 they were supported by the Arab ruler Dubays. He had been their enemy only a few years previously but was driven to enter this alliance having been cast out from Iraq. Thus he joined this offensive Frankish alliance because it was the last place to which he could run. Likewise, when the Franks were advancing on Damascus in 1126–9 they secured assistance from the Nizaris because the Nizaris were heavily persecuted in Damascus and they had no one else to call upon for support. Even the main author of expansionist warfare could be impelled by this fear and certainly all of the Crusader States in their early years needed to acquire as much land as possible—fast—if they were to have any chance of securing their long-term survival. Yet again, therefore, such wars and alliances can be explained to some degree at least by necessity and pragmatism rather than inter-faith hostility, reaffirming the ‘no-place’ argument. Viewed from this perspective, any notion that religious hatred was the touchstone of conflict and the guiding principle steering diplomacy (for any faction) swiftly falls apart to be replaced by a far more complex equation involving a far broader array of more prosaic factors. Köhler’s thesis—stressing pragmatism and a mutual readiness for inter-faith co-operation—has the additional strength of tallying with many other factors well known to scholars studying the Medieval Near East. These include: the readiness of all parties to hire mercenaries from other faith groups; their willingness to worship side-by-side in places sacred to both Christianity and Islam;218 the broadly stable modus vivendi established between Frankish rulers and many of the Muslim communities under their rule;219 the positive depictions of some individual non-believers found in many of the sources produced by all factions;220 the continued existence 217  Köhler only mentions this network of alliances very briefly (Alliances and Treaties, 162). 218  See, for example: B. Kedar, ‘Convergences of Oriental Christian, Muslim and Frankish worshippers: the case of Saydnaya and the Knights Templar, The Crusades and the Military Orders: Expanding the Frontiers of Medieval Latin Christianity, ed. Z.  Hunyadi and J.  Laszlovszky (Budapest, 2001), 89–100. 219  The classic study here is: B.  Kedar, ‘The subjected Muslims of the Frankish Levant’, Muslims under Latin Rule, ed. J. Powell (Princeton, 1990), 135–74. 220  See, for example: N. Morton, ‘William of Tyre’s attitude towards Islam: some historiographical reflections’, Deeds Done Beyond the Sea: Essays on William of Tyre, Cyprus and the Military Orders, ed. S. Edgington and H. Nicholson, Crusades—Subsidia VI (Farnham, 2014), 13–23.

206  The Crusader States and their Neighbours of some Muslim lordships under Frankish suzerainty;221 the frequent artistic and architectural borrowings by all groups from other cultural/faith traditions; and the many Turkish and Arab elite refugees who sought sanctuary with the Franks during the various Turkish internecine conflicts. All these factors affirm this ­thesis, speaking of a readiness to make cross-cultural alliances and co-operate with other religious traditions. By extension, nearly all rulers were willing to make alliances with non-believers and, even amidst the heated jihad rhetoric of the 1170s–80s, Saladin was courting support from the Byzantine Empire,222 building contacts with the German Empire,223 and signing off trading concessions to the Venetians in c.1172 and Pisans in 1173, while remaining on good terms with the Genoese, and later negotiating with Raymond of Tripoli.224 In the Fatimid Empire, while the various political factions were working alternately with the Franks and Turks during the 1160s, al-Qadi al-Fadil celebrated the achievements of Shawar’s Frankish allies with the following astonishing statement: ‘You [the Franks] stood up in support of the Prophet and his family, so God the Most Merciful owes you a reward for that.’225 Co-operation across religious boundaries was the norm—even for rulers busy cultivating their public image as leaders of holy war. There are however a few areas where Köhler’s work needs rather more nuance. The idea that pragmatism and ‘no-place’ thinking were the drivers of conflict works well in a huge number of scenarios, but it fits rather more awkwardly in conflicts where the aggressor was driven more by ambition and aspiration, rather than the need to survive. For example, there was no existential need for Baldwin II to attack Damascus in 1129 or for the Second Crusade to attack the city in 1148. The Jerusalemites faced no serious threat from this city on either occasion, nor was their position so weak that their survival required territorial expansion, nor was Damascus in any real danger of falling to another Turkish leader at these moments, who might use the city to strengthen his empire. Likewise, neither Zangi’s wars of expansion in the Jazira nor Saladin’s conquest of both Syria and the Jazira were driven by any conspicuous need. Zangi could have contented himself with Aleppo and Mosul and, several decades later (after 1174), Saladin could have remained in Egypt. The continued existence of their power was not contingent on expansion. In other words, they set out to conquer in large part because they wanted to do so, not because they were being compelled by pragmatism or 221 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 55, 70. 222  For discussion on these negotiations see: Harris, Byzantium and the Crusades, 132–5. 223 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 204. 224  D. Jacoby, ‘Pisa and the Frankish states of the Levant in the Twelfth Century’, Communicating the Middle Ages, ed. I. Shagrir, B. Kedar and M. Balard, Crusades—Subsidia XI (Abingdon, 2018), 95; Jacoby, ‘Diplomacy, trade, shipping and espionage’, 90. M.  Balard, ‘The Genoese expansion in the Middle Ages’, Communicating the Middle Ages, ed. I.  Shagrir, B.  Kedar and M.  Balard, Crusades— Subsidia XI (Abingdon, 2018), 180. 225  Translation from: Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword, 194.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  207 force of circumstances. Likewise, the Anatolian Seljuks were under no compulsion to expand south towards the lands of the Greak Seljuks in Iraq and Persia in 1107—they were not under any known threat at the time when they made their incursions. In such cases, there were other motives at work beyond simply the fear of a ‘no-place’ scenario. On these occasions at least, aspirational motives were instrumental to at least as great a degree as the demands of necessity. Having said this, even when commanders were free/free-ish to plot their own course, they would not necessarily have been guided by the dictates of holy war. As shown above, the Anatolian Seljuk interventions to the south around Mosul were almost certainly guided by dynastic rivalry. For his part, Zangi was clearly intent on establishing his own empire and El-Azhari has recently demonstrated conclusively that holy war against the Franks played a secondary role in his thought world.226 Trade could also be a serious driver for conflict and the Italian cities’ enthusiasm for supporting the Frankish conquest of the coastal cities should at least partially viewed in this light. In these scenarios ‘no-place’ thinking does not apply to anything like the same degree and it is necessary to consider what these leaders actually wanted to achieve beyond their own survival. Returning to the theme of trade as a catalyst of conflict, there were several moments when Turkish rulers instigated hostilities on hearing that their merchants had been mistreated in Frankish ports. Examples include the seizure of goods belonging to Damascene linen merchants by the lord of Beirut in 1132 and the arrest of Aleppan merchants in Antiochene territory in 1138.227 Likewise, the Fatimid Empire frequently made war with the Franks, but was also careful not to jeopardize the crucial imports of timber which were shipped along the Levantine coast through sea lanes controlled by the Crusader States.228 Another very different factor shaping the nature of conflict is short-term ‘opportunism’. The history of the Near East in the twelfth century furnishes many examples where geopolitical circumstances combined to present rulers with a sudden opportunity to increase their power and influence whilst incurring min­imal risk. The classic example of this occurs when country A moves north to defend itself against country B only for county C to stage their own attack on country A from the south, knowing that its defenders are elsewhere. Examples of these kinds of attacks include the mass of incursions made against Antioch by the Byzantines, Ridwan of Aleppo, and the Armenians following the Antiochene–Edessan defeat at Harran (1104). Likewise, many attacks were staged during a ruler’s absence or 226 El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response, 31, 37, 87, 96. 227  1132: IQ, 216; 1138: IQ, 246. 228  See for example: S. Edgington, ‘Espionage and counter-espionage’, 162. Admittedly however the Fatimids could access other sources of timber, for example, in East Africa, see: Y.  Rapoport and E.  Savage-Smith, Lost Maps of the Caliphs: Drawing the World in Eleventh-century Cairo (Oxford, 2018), 224; D. Nicolle, ‘The manufacture and importation of military equipment in the Islamic Eastern Mediterranean (10th–14th centuries)’, Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk eras III, ed. U. Vermeulen and J. Van Steenbergen (Leuven, 2001), 145.

208  The Crusader States and their Neighbours illness or following their death; or alternatively when a territory’s defending army was engaged elsewhere. These might include Baldwin II’s raid on Aleppo in 1121 (while Ilghazi was absent),229 the Fatimid raid of 1113 (while the kingdom of Jerusalem’s army was facing Tughakin and Mawdud in the north),230 or Amalric’s attack on Banyas in 1174 (following Nur al-Din’s death).231 So what role then should be assigned to holy warfare? Certainly we do not lack for source material. Crusading enthusiasts, like the advocates of jihad, produced huge quantities of material, whether sermons, speeches, poetry, inscriptions, or letters. The growing infrastructure of crusading in Western Christendom bears witness to its popularity, just as the wider propaganda initiated by Nur al-Din and still more by Saladin demonstrates that such rulers self-consciously wished to promote the idea of religious war (even if their actual policies sometimes lacked the pious pugilism of their stated objectives).232 There was likewise never any shortage of commentators who longed for the moment when their co-religionists might seize a town or city at the expense of unbelievers—giving them the chance to celebrate uproariously. One of William of Tyre’s throwaway remarks also bears on this matter where he observes: ‘war is waged differently and less vigourously beween men who hold the same law and faith than it is between those of diverse opinions and conflicting traditions. For even if no other cause for hatred exists, the fact that the combatants do not share the same articles of faith is sufficient reason for constant quarrelling and enmity’; not an easy verdict either to substantiate or disprove perhaps, but highly suggestive nonetheless.233 Köhler’s view on this is generally that, from a ruler’s perspective, holy war was simply one tool among many that a ruler might pick up if it was appropriate to a political context, but would put down just as willingly if it was no longer relevant.234 He concludes his thesis stating that the influence of holy war on ‘relationships between Syrian powers of differing religions is generally quite slight’.235 He builds on this interpretation by noting—quite rightly—that Near Eastern rulers could find at times that they were held hostage by their own propaganda. Discussing Saladin, for example, he notes that Saladin’s propaganda machine worked so well that at times Saladin could be held accountable by his own supporters to fulfil his own publicly professed promises to lead the holy war against the Franks.236 The same could be true on occasion for the Franks and several sources contain reports 229 KAD, 629.   230 FC, 572–3.   231  WT, 956. 232  For discussion see: S. England, Medieval Empires and the Culture of Competition: Literary Duels at Islamic and Christian Courts (Edinburgh, 2017), 67–104; Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, passim; Lev, ‘The jihād of sultan Nūr al-Dīn’, 227–84. 233  Translation: William of Tyre, History, vol. 2, 24–5. Latin: WT, 606. See also: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 26. I am grateful to John France for drawing my attention to this quotation. 234 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 207 and passim. 235 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 321. For further discussion see: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 10. 236 Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 228–9.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  209 of Western crusading forces aggressively seeking conflict, even to the point of demanding military action from rather more reluctant Eastern Frankish leaders.237 The problem with concluding that rulers—from all ethnic groups—harboured little enthusiasm for holy war—and embarked on religious campaigns only when it suited their other interests or to appease the populace—is that it divorces them from their own cultural contexts, suggesting instead that they were overwhelming driven by their own cold-blooded notions of advantage/risk. Doubtlessly such considerations played their part in these rulers’ thought worlds, but there are some balancing factors worthy of inclusion in this equation. Firstly, and at least on a personal level, many of these rulers were deeply devout and their profound piety seems to have been entirely sincere. Taking Nur al-Din as an example, both Michael the Syrian and Bar Hebraeus draw attention to his profound religious devotion, even noting that his nephew ordered drunken revels to take place on hearing of his death—clearly this would simply not have been possible while his devout uncle was alive.238 By extension, leaders such as Nur al-Din were not afraid to translate their faith into political action and, to take one instance of this, Michael the Syrian notes that Nur al-Din was strict in his enforcement of the prohibition on building new Christian churches and monasteries, where many of his predecessors had been less stringent.239 Given these proofs of the seriousness of his religious policies in other zones of governance it seems inconsistent to suggest that Nur al-Din’s military policies were driven by a very different set of objectives (particularly given his own declared devotion to jihad). Likewise, there are patterns of diplomatic action which nuance the idea that faith identity was of little concern in the forming of alliances. During this period the Franks very rarely fought against one another, despite fighting endless wars with non-Catholic groups. Rare examples of inter-Frankish conflict may be found, including the Antioch/Edessa war of 1108, the Jerusalem/Tripoli conflict of 1132, and the brief civil war in Jerusalem in 1152, but, taken overall, as Ibn alQalanisi pointed out, such conflicts were unusual.240 There was also substantial hostility towards any Frankish ruler who sought to ally with a Turkish or Fatimid ruler against a co-religionist. This was almost always deemed unacceptable, although Frankish alliances with Turkish rulers against other Turkish rulers were viewed more favourably.241 When Kogh Vasil’s wife began negotiating with Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi in 1114, many of the Frankish troops in her employ 237  Köhler draws attention to al-Maqrizi’s belief that when Amalric attacked Cairo in 1168 he was doing so under pressure from newly-arrived Crusaders (Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 195). 238  BH, vol. 1, 302; MS, 703.    239 MS, 696.   240  IQ, 215. 241  See for example some of the expressions of hostility made concerning Hugh of Jaffa in 1134 (e.g.: WT, 653) and Raymond of Tripoli in 1187 (e.g.: Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 166). For discussion and a different perspective on such alliances see: Y. Friedman, ‘Peacemaking in an age of war: when were cross-religious alliances in the Latin East considered treason’, The Crusader World, ed. A. Boas (Abingdon, 2016), 98–107.

210  The Crusader States and their Neighbours abandoned her immediately.242 Likewise, and as shown above, urban communities were far more willing to yield to co-religionists than to non-believers. Faith orientation and ethnic identity mattered and weighed heavily enough to play its part in shaping Near Eastern diplomacy. Perhaps the best way to understand the operative principles defining both the causes of conflict and the formation of alliances in this region/period is to im­agine a Venn diagram consisting of six intersecting circles labelled: (1) migration, (2) realpolitik (notions of pragmatism, risk, and opportunism), (3) trade and commercial interest, (4) internal tensions (inheritance disputes, civil war, rebellions), (5) holy war, (6) and the influence of key protagonists and their personalities.243 At different times during this period and in different locations these circles expanded/contracted and overlapped to different degrees. For example, at the start of this period, the Turks were at a relatively early stage in their conversion to Islam and so, from their perspective at least, the holy war ‘circle’ would be fairly small. It would however have grown over time as jihad propaganda gathered momentum and as the Turks embodied the Islamic faith and culture to a greater degree. It is important to stress however that religious warfare and notions of inter-faith conflict only ever represented one factor—and not necessarily the most important one—in a much broader political equation which can only be understood when the relations, inter-cultural tensions, personal rivalries, and affinities of all the region’s major and minor factions and their leaders are fully understood.

The Strategic Role of Castles in Turkish and Frankish Campaigning The ‘Crusader Castle’ has long been held up as the quintessential emblem of the Crusader States. Seemingly this was as true in the twelfth century as it is in the twenty-first. In 1192 Saladin is said to have remarked (when contemplating the Treaty of Jaffa): ‘I fear to make peace, not knowing what may become of me. Our enemy will grow strong, now that they have retained these lands. They will come forth to recover the rest of their lands and you will see every one of them ensconced on his hill-top’, meaning in his castle, ‘having announced, “I shall stay put” and the Muslims will be ruined.’244 242  IAA(C), vol. 1, 167. 243  See also: N. Morton: ‘Christian crusades to the eastern Mediterranean, 1095-1291’, ChristianMuslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, volume 15 Thematic essays (600-1600), ed. D. Pratt and C.L. Tieszen (Leiden, 2020), 298. 244  Quotation from: IS, 232.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  211 So what role did castles play in the cut-and-thrust of Near Eastern politics and warfare? The discussion here will not attempt a holistic study of all Near Eastern castles and their many purposes; rather it will focus on fortifications located in contested border zones (whether castles, towers, towns, etc.) and their role in shaping the way in which campaigns were fought.245 Perhaps the most important point to make on this topic is that castles located in border areas were very important indeed for frontier defence.246 They were not simply places of retreat, statements of authority, or scaled-up strongboxes as has been claimed by historians who have stressed their other functions whilst downplaying their role as frontier defences.247 Noticeably across all four Crusader States a disproportionate amount of conflict took place around a handful of frontier strongpoints. In the south, facing Egypt, it was the castle of Ramla and the city of Jaffa which bore the brunt of many of the Fatimids’ assaults; Jaffa being attacked or raided in 1101, 1102, 1103, 1104, 1105, 1106, 1107, 1115, 1123, 1134, and 1151.248 In Transjordan, the major fortresses of Monreal and Kerak absorbed attack after attack from Nur al-Din and later Saladin in their efforts to open a road between Damascus and Egypt. Further north, facing Damascus, the town of Tiberias and later the stronghold of Banyas endured considerable punishment, absorbing many of the incoming raids and attacks from Damascus (Tiberias in 1108, 1113, 1118, 1121, 1134, 1172, 1180, and 1187;249 Banyas in 1132, 1151, 1154, 1157 (twice), and 1164).250 Likewise, on the county of Tripoli’s borders, the towns of Barin and Rafaniyya passed repeatedly to and fro between the Frankish counts and their foes in the early twelfth century, representing major points of contention. In the principality of Antioch there were an array of frontline strongholds which came repeatedly under attack including: Apamea, Kafartab, al-Atharib, and  Azaz. Later, once Antioch’s frontline fortresses had been stripped away by Sawar in the 1130s, the hilltop fortress of Harim found itself on the frontline.251 245  For a detailed analysis on castle building in the kingdom of Jerusalem along with a detailed survey of the historiography see: Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, passim. See also: Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement, passim. 246  See also some thought-provoking discussion in: Buck, ‘The castle and lordship of Ḥ ārim’, 113. 247  Smail plays down castles’ role in frontier defence (Crusading Warfare, 60–1, 204–5) although he nuances his own argument rather later in his discussion on this point acknowledging that some frontier castles could be important (208–9). Ellenblum’s study on the kingdom of Jerusalem suggests that the Franks did not rely on their castles for the defence of the frontier for many decades, but began to do so as the balance of power turned against them (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, see also: Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement, 15). See also: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 51. 248  1101: AA, 582; 1102: AA, 648; 1103: IQ, 58; 1104: AA, 674; 1105: AA, 704; 1106: AA, 726; 1107: AA, 748; 1115: FC, 585; 1123: FC, 661–2; 1134: WT, 653; 1151: IQ, 307–8. 249  1108: IQ, 86; 1113: AA, 838; 1118: IAA(C), vol. 1, 196; 1121: FC, 643; 1134: IAA(C), vol. 1, 305; 1172: IAA(C), vol. 2, 209; 1180: WT, 1007; 1187: IAA(C), vol. 2, 320 (admittedly most of these attacks were raids rather than sieges). 250 1132: IQ, 216; 1151: IQ, 311; 1154: WT, 796–7; 1157(1): IQ, 333; 1157(2): WT, 832; 1164: IAA(C), vol. 2, 149. 251  For discussion on this fortress and its role see: Buck, ‘The castle and lordship of Ḥ ārim’, 113–31.

212  The Crusader States and their Neighbours In the county of Edessa, it was the city of Edessa itself that was so frequently the point of contention, suffering an enormous sixteen attacks (raids up to the walls, blockades, or direct sieges) between 1098 and 1146.252 During the course of the twelfth century, many of the above strongholds changed hands frequently with all sides manifesting considerable determination to acquire them whether by force or negotiation. The same could be true among some Turkish factions. As shown above, Melitene preoccupied the Seljuks and Danishmendids to an astonishing degree. The towns of Hama and Homs were frequently contested by Damascus and Aleppo. The riverine crossing of Balis was a point of tension between Aleppo and its opponents in the Jazira. The fortress of Amid was frequently contested by the Artuqids and Zangids. It seems then that a small number of specific locations absorbed a disproportionate amount of the region’s campaigning. This can be demonstrated stat­is­tic­ al­ly using the principality of Antioch as an exemplar. Reviewing all the Turkish incursions staged across the Antiochene/Aleppan frontier between 1110 and 1187 a clear pattern emerges.253 Among the tens of Turkish incursions, 84 per cent included an attack (whether a raid or a formal siege) against at least one of the following seven strongpoints: Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man (1111, 1115, 1119, 1132, 1134, 1135), Apamea (1115, 1119, 1123–4, 1148, 1149), Kafartab (1115, 1119, 1123, 1125, 1129, 1134, 1135), al-Atharib (1119, 1126, 1130, 1131, 1135, 1138, 1139), Azaz (1120, 1122, 1124), Zardana (1119, 1122 (twice), 1125, 1132, 1134, 1135) or Harim (1134, 1149 (twice), 1156–7, 1162, 1164 (twice)).254 In this way, for long periods, the Antiochenes could be reasonably confident where the next attack would land and which regions would bear the brunt of the assault because there were consistent patterns to their enemy’s campaigning—Buck refers to them as ‘strategic hotspots’.255 The Turkish strategy was, in part at least, presumably to wear down these castles/fortified towns and their defenders as part of a long term project to seize a specific castle. Nevertheless, the Turks’ willingness to focus on a small number of specific locations reveals an important dimension to their strategic thinking. It has frequently been pointed out that castles—very obviously—could not offer direct military protection to land beyond an arrow shot from their walls. They certainly did not represent a linear barrier across the entirety of a Crusader State’s ­frontier—some Frankish version of the Great Wall of China.256 Even so, the 252 1098: ASC1, 71; 1101: ASC1, 77; 1104(1): IQ, 60; 1104(2): AA, 694; 1106: ME, 199; 1110, 1111, 1112, 1114, 1115 (see Chapters 1 and 2); 1120: ME, 225; 1123: ASC1, 92; 1128–9: al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 121; 1137–8: MS, 656; 1144 and 1146: (see Chapter 4). 253  Please note, these figures only include attacks where a specific target is given for the attacking forces. Attacks which are generically said to have attacked the principality without specifying where are not included. 254  1110 has been chosen at the starting point because it was only by this year—roughly—that Antioch’s hitherto perennially expanding borders began to harden. 255 Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 34, 245.    256  Pringle, ‘Castles and frontiers’, 238–9.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  213 Turks’  persistent attacks against the same locations, coupled with their marked reluctance to circumvent these castles and attack the lands beyond, demonstrates that these fortresses were perceived as forming a perimeter that would have to be assaulted and seized before deeper incursions could be contemplated, even if their walls could not physically block off all points of entry across the frontier.257 The Turks’ concentrated efforts against a small number of locations is remarkable. It seems to reflect an awareness that to dominate any particular region, it was necessary to seize its main urban/military centre point which often represented the main concentration of population, the centre of the road network and other lines of communication, and a spiritual focal point for local faith communities. There is also the question of why the Turks did not simply bypass frontier strongholds and strike deep into the rich farmlands of a Crusader State’s most productive regions (generally along the coast). After all, Turkish light cavalry would not have found it difficult to simply ride around a Frankish castle. On this point, the patterns provided by descriptions of campaigning in this era are very suggestive. Turkish invaders from the Aleppan region between 1110 and 1187 only circumvented Antioch’s frontier castles—leaving these strongholds wholly unfought to move beyond them to strike at the principality’s heartlands—on three occasions: in 1136, 1141, and 1187. The 1136 attack occurred when Sawar supported by various Turkmen tribes raided the principality’s main port of Latakia, the 1141 attack was led by Sawar supported by Turkmen troops against the city of Antioch,258 and in the autumn of 1187 another group of Turkmen tribes attacked Latakia once again.259 There were other occasions when invading Turkish forces pressed on to the coast following the conquest of one or more frontier castles, particularly following a battlefield victory (such as the Field of Blood in 1119 or Inab in 1149), but 1136, 1141, and 1187 represent the only occasions when they did so without seizing a substantial length of the frontier as a first phase. The crucial factor connecting the 1136, 1142, and 1187 incursions is that they all represent periods of serious enfeeblement for the principality. In 1136 Antioch was facing rebellions in Cilicia and also in the vicinity of Latakia. It had also just lost most of its frontier castles to Zangi’s forces during the previous year.260 In 1141, Antioch had recently been despoiled of many of its key frontier fortresses by Zangi and its prince was then on pilgrimage in Jerusalem. The 1187 incursion can probably best be explained by the increasing confident and growing presence of Turkmen groups in northern Syria mixed with the arrival of news of  the kingdom of Jerusalem’s defeat at Hattin a few weeks previously. 257  See also: Buck, ‘The castle and lordship of Ḥ ārim’, 114, 122. 258  al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 148. 259  Robert of Auxerre, ‘Roberti Autissiodorensis Chronicon’, MGH S, ed. O. Holder-Egger, vol. 26 (Hanover, 1882), 251. 260  For the rebellion in Balatanus see A. A. Al-Khowayter, ‘A critical edition of an unknown source for the life of al-Malik al-Zahir Baibars’, 709–10; Ibn al-Furat, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders, vol. 2, 134.

214  The Crusader States and their Neighbours These ex­amples aside, every other Turkish incursion against Antioch attacked the ­frontier and did not move beyond it until it had taken one or more frontier castles. Presumably such raiding parties were worried that if they simply ignored Antioch’s frontline fortresses then they might find themselves trapped in Frankish territory when these castles’ garrisons barred their return journey.261 This in turn leads to the conclusion that frontier castles were perceived as barring the frontier, even if their enemies had the capacity to circumvent them. It is also notable, however, that the few ambitious raids which did bypass Antiochene frontier defences were generally composed of Turkmen tribesmen. A similar pattern can be found elsewhere with Turkmen forces bypassing Tripoli’s defences to attack the city of Tripoli’s hinterland in 1133,262 Turkmen forces under Shirkuh’s leadership raiding Sidon in 1158,263 and—perhaps most astonishingly— Turkmen contingents staging a march against the city of Jerusalem, ignoring the kingdom’s other bastions of defence, in 1152. Seemingly the nomadic Turkmen tribes were more willing to circumvent frontier defences than other Turkish forces which nearly always concentrated their attention on frontline strongpoints. Moving the discussion on to the spatial distribution of Frankish castles, another quality common to the majority of frontier fortifications is that few of them were ‘new builds’ (constructed from scratch by the Franks themselves).264 The only Antiochene addition to the principality’s main advanced positions fa­cing Aleppo was the fortified monastery of Hisn ad-Deir (not in fact a ‘new build’, but substantially repurposed); the remainder were all well-established sites.265 The county of Tripoli relied heavily on the existing towns of Barin and Rafaniyya, and later on the fortress of Krak des Chevaliers (which pre-dated the Crusaders, but which was later built up by the Hospitallers after they took possession in 1142).266 Likewise, in the kingdom of Jerusalem, Banyas, Tiberias, Jaffa, and Ramla were also settlements with long histories. Among the few heavily contested strongholds to have actually been built by the Franks were Monreal (built 1115) and Kerak (built 1142) in Transjordan, although at the time of their construction they were a long way from the frontier and it could not have been predicted at this point that they would become so contentious. Of course, as the century progressed, the Franks did build other frontier fortresses, particularly on Jerusalem’s Damascene frontier including fortifications like Belvoir, Safad, Hunin, and Jacob’s Ford, often 261  Another factor which could explain this reluctance among Turkish raiders to circumvent frontier castles is the possibility that these castles could communicate, either by pigeon or beacon with friendly forces, enabling them to reinforce the area immediately. As Pringle has rightly noted, however, there is little to support the idea that Frankish castles performed this function. Pringle, ‘Castles and frontiers’, 231. 262 IQ, 221.   263  Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 4, 98. 264 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 171; Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 169. 265  For discussion on Hisn ad-Deir see: Asbridge, Principality of Antioch, 82–4. 266 D.  Berger, ‘Der Crac des Chevaliers’, Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit, ed. M.  Piana (Petersburg, 2008), 302–14.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  215 to plug holes in existing defences and/or to provide a more detailed level of ­defensive infrastructure on borders threatened by increasing attacks. As shown above, this frontier had not required substantial defences (unlike Antioch’s eastern borders) in previous years, but post-1154 was more vulnerable following Nur al-Din’s conquest of Damascus.267 The Franks also substantially reconstructed and built up many of their frontline strongholds, particularly following earthquakes or sieges. Even so, from a strategic perspective, the Frankish states largely accommodated themselves and their frontiers to the region’s existing human and physical geography.268 They had good reason to do so given the costs involved in constructing entirely new defences. Having said this, the relentless nature of warfare across the region mixed with its proclivity for earthquakes would have ensured that simply maintaining or expanding existing fortifications would still have been extremely expensive. In this way, the process by which patterns of frontier fortresses emerged would be best characterized as lacking any overall sense of planning (certainly no rigid long-term masterplan) but responding organically both to military circumstances and to geographic concerns whether physical (mountains, rivers, etc.) or human (towns/strongholds/road networks). By extension, there may have been no grandplan but Frankish commanders were careful to bolster up their defences in areas where they were—or were in danger of becoming—insufficient. Faced with Frankish attack, the Turks at times also built up their frontier defences. Like the Franks they tended to focus their efforts on the defence and maintenance of their major settlements, such as Hama and Homs (which were contested by Aleppo and Damascus and sporadically threatened by the county of Tripoli). Also, like the Franks, they tended to rely on existing strongholds for the protection of their frontiers, rather than constructing entirely new castles; however, there were a few examples where they constructed new fortifications. In 1106–7 Tughtakin of Damascus encouraged a group of Turkmen tribes to settle near Petra (Transjordan), the idea being that they could counter the Franks who were steadily encroaching on the region. Like the Franks, these Turkmen forces sought to stake their claim by constructing a fort, but they were driven away before they could complete the task.269 Then in c.1120 Tughtakin constructed a small fortification at Jerash, seemingly to provide himself with an outpost with which to contest control of Transjordan.270 Again the Franks responded quickly and destroyed the stronghold soon after it was built.271 In 1181 Saladin ordered a

267 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 172. 268  For a summary on the debate surrounding the spatial distribution of Crusader castles see: Pringle, ‘Castles and frontiers’, 227–8. 269  AA, 744–6; IQ, 81–2. 270  See: R. Rattenborg and L. Blanke, ‘Jerash in the Islamic Ages (c.700–1200 CE): a critical review’, Levant, 49:3 (2017), 327. 271  FC, 643–4.

216  The Crusader States and their Neighbours small fort to be built near Suez to protect merchants along with a castle at Tinnis, seemingly as an extension of his broader building campaign to develop his defences in Egypt and Sinai.272 There were other occasions when Turkic rulers refortified existing castles. These include Balak’s efforts to build up his position along the line of the Euphrates in 1124, but there are few other references to newly constructed fort­ resses.273 Clearly the Turks were prepared to build castles if they thought it ne­ces­ sary, but it is also conspicuous that they did not attempt to fortify some highly contested frontiers.274 For example, the kingdom of Jerusalem attacked the Hawran region time and again, but the Damascenes made little attempt to enhance their defences on this frontier, being content instead to maintain their hold over the main town of Bosra. Likewise, there are no reports of new fortresses in the Biqa (another favoured target) and when the Franks possessed Banyas—a well-positioned base for attacks on Damascus itself—the Turks made no attempt to protect the city with any new fortresses in the intervening territory. In these regions, the Damascenes seem to have been content simply to control the major regional centres of Bosra (Hawran), Baalbek (Biqa), and Damascus itself. For this reason, offensive Jerusalemite campaigning on its Damascene border was not concerned with the possession of strongholds to anything like the same degree as the Turkish attacks against Jerusalem. Further north the situation was rather different. The towns of Homs and Hama as well as Aleppo itself were sheltered for much of this period from Frankish attack by intervening frontier towns such as Barin, al-Atharib, Harim, and Buza over which the Turks were careful to maintain control, even if they did not seek to construct any other large fortifications. For this reason, Antiochene and Tripolitan incursions focused on the control of these strongpoints to a far greater degree than their southern cousins, who could often march directly on Damascus or Bosra without any intervening obstacles. Taken overall, the Turks seem to have concentrated their attention more closely on the retention of the large regional towns and cities, staking their authority on their control over these centre points. Both the Franks and the Turks made use of existing, smaller castles and fortified towns and attached considerable importance to them, but the Franks seem to have been more preoccupied with establishing detailed lines of defence against the Turks and to have gone to substantially greater pains to castellate rural border zones, presumably at least in part to guarantee their communities’ safety and economic interests. The importance of frontier castles becomes evident on those occasions when an attacker advanced across an unfortified frontier (such as the abovementioned 272  AM, 64. See also: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 216; C. Booker and E. Knauf, ‘[Review of] Crusader Institutions by Joshua Prawer’, Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins, 104 (1988), 187. 273 KAD, 640.   274  See Raphael’s comments in Muslim Fortresses, 7–8.

Saladin and the Battle of Hattin  217 Jerusalemite attacks on the Hawran). In such scenarios the attacker had virtually free rein to loot far and wide without restriction; something not possible if an invading force was compelled to tackle a frontier castle prior to advancing any further. Likewise, if all the frontier castles separating two cities from one another were captured by one faction then the weakened party could suffer badly. An example of this would be the Antioch/Aleppan frontier where between 1110 and 1119, and later in the early 1120s, Antioch possessed most of the intervening towns and castles and consequently could raid or attack Aleppo and its hinterland with impunity. By contrast when these same frontier castles were conquered by Sawar in 1135, he was then able to strike as deep as Latakia within the Frankish principality. Both sides evidently viewed possession of frontier castles as a pre­requis­ite for deep incursions into enemy territory and where no protective frontier castles existed then more secure regions could be devastated. In short, the wars of the twelfth-century Near East were overwhelmingly ­centred on castles and fortified towns/cities. A common feature to both the Turks’ and the Franks’ warcraft was the concentrated attention they gave to such sites, particularly lynchpin frontier towns/forts. Generally, they were only willing to penetrate deeply beyond frontier zones when it was clear that an enemy was so enfeebled that they could offer no response to an incursion and/or if they had possession of all the border strongholds (and such enfeeblement for any faction was very rare). The main implication of this stance would have been that, despite the near-permanent storm clouds of war over disputed frontier territories, other regions away from the borderlands could expect to be only lightly touched by warfare, given that commanders were often reticent about striking too deeply into opposing territory.  

7

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange in the Evolution of Near Eastern Warfare So far, warfare in the Near East has been considered at a predominantly strategic level, looking at wide patterns of campaigning spread across the region. Tactical concerns have only really been addressed sporadically, largely when they substantially shaped or impacted the ‘big picture’. Within this high-level analysis there has been little to suggest that either the Turks or the Franks displayed much in­nov­ation in the ways that they waged war. In basic composition and conduct, the Franks raised armies on a broadly similar model to their counterparts in Western Christendom (particularly their ­cousins in northern Europe and the Normans in Sicily and Italy). War was characterized by raids, sieges, and the construction and defence of castles and towns. Armies in the east continued to be raised in a recognizable manner: elites providing the heavy cavalry and lower cadres supplying the infantry. There were some adaptations to the Near Eastern environment. The Franks were reluctant to fight battles, but had to be prepared to do so on a semi-frequent basis. Likewise, the way in which they constructed their castles included adaptations to Turkish siege craft, even if these alterations and additions were not generally innovations, but had been in long-term use.1 Perhaps the clearest example of the Franks’ lack of innovation is that they never found a way to overcome their deficiencies in offensive warfare. The Turks proved time and again that they could shut down a Frankish offensive by constricting an attacking army’s freedom of movement with light cavalry, but the Franks never developed an effective counter-measure. The Turks for their part likewise demonstrated little strategic innovation. Their armies were essentially hybrids, incorporating elements of steppe culture along with practices common to the Near Eastern societies which they had conquered during the eleventh century.2 In this way, a large proportion of most Turkish armies comprised nomadic Turkmen cavalry, some of whom brought their flocks, herds, and families with them on campaign; exactly as their steppe forefathers had done for centuries. But Turkish armies also contained a hard core of highly

1 See, for example: P.  Purton, A History of the Early Medieval Siege: c.450–1200 (Woodbridge, 2009), 321. 2  France captions the military conflict between Franks and Turks as a ‘clash of contrasts’: France, ‘Warfare in the Mediterranean region’, 9–26. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  219 trained, well-mounted cavalry companies including Mamluk forces (elite slave soldiers); formations more redolent of the settled societies which they had overthrown. Turkish commanders also began to acquire waggon trains, heavy siege weapons, and other logistical functionaries, again more familiar to the the armies deployed by agricultural societies. Their ranks could also be supplemented by other local forces such as Bedouin and Kurdish horsemen. Consequently, and like the Franks, the Turkish way of war was simply the ‘other side of the coin’ to their basic socio-cultural context—and there is little to suggest that they attempted to substantially rethink this model so as to better confront the Franks. They too seem to have made little attempt to compensate for their main weakness—their inability to successfully co-ordinate infantry forces with their many mounted companies in field operations.3 Infantry forces were frequently available to the Turks, but rarely employed to great effect and even as late as 1189, Saladin attempted to dissuade infantry forces from joining his army.4 Only in siege warfare and the defence of towns—both scenarios where cavalry could only play a limited role—were they more effective. In this way, adaptations were employed so as to better position an army to defeat its foe but there is little to suggest that any faction made any serious attempt to innovate beyond its basic socio-cultural template. Indeed, the earliest example I can find of any author suggesting that any society should fundamentally ­re–think—at a grass-roots level—how its army should be raised and deployed dates to the mid thirteenth century when John of Plano Carpini returned from his embassage to the Mongols (1245–7). He was deeply affected by his journey and wrote up his findings suggesting that Christian armies capable of defeating the Mongols should be organized according to the Mongols’ decimal system (i.e. made up of squads of ten soldiers, which were then organized in groups of ten to form a hundred-strong company, which were then organized in groups of ten to form a thousand-strong contingent etc.). He advised that the army should be well paid and superbly armed (with many techniques borrowed from the Mongols).5 Of course Carpini’s suggestions never marched off the vellum they were written on, nor strictly speaking were they innovations, because he was borrowing extensively from the Mongols; nevertheless his work reflects the first serious proposal where an author suggested that the basic template of Western Christian military society should be overhauled. In what follows, this conversation on innovation will be extended to the ‘tactical’ level, considering the various soldiers deployed

3  For discussion see: France, ‘Crusading warfare and its adaptation’, 55; Smail, Crusading Warfare, 76; Lev, ‘The jihād of sultan Nūr al-Dīn of Syria’, 258. For the thirteenth century see: Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 172. 4 IS, 92. Saladin also had access to advice manuals which discussed infantry tactics: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 130. 5 John Plano Carpini, ‘History of the Mongols’, Mission to Asia, trans. C.  Dawson, Medieval Academy Reprints for Teaching (Toronto, 1980), 46.

220  The Crusader States and their Neighbours by both sides and then the tactics they employed. The analysis will focus on the Turks and Franks because, although other peoples were involved in the contemporary struggle for the Near East (Armenians, Byzantines, Fatimids, Bedouin, etc.), these could be described as the leading protagonists. For the purposes of this discussion, two key terms will be employed. The first is ‘adaptation’. In a military sense this will be used to refer to occasions when commanders either (1) made adjustments to existing military practices so as to better combat an enemy or (2) made more intensive use of existing/known tactics or weapons. The term ‘innovation’ will be reserved for occasions when commanders did something fundamentally new, rather than simply remodulating their existing socio-military template.

The Combatants The mainstay of Eastern Frankish armies was naturally their companies of mounted knights.6 Their reliance on such troops was entirely conventional and yet there were some adaptations that took place during the course of the twelfth century. Knights learned to work in sober close formation with a strong emphasis placed on discipline. Chivalric nonsenses such as single-handed attacks on enemy formations still occurred but were increasingly deemed unacceptable.7 Moreover, techniques were identified to enhance the impact of the Frankish cavalry charge. Famously, at the battle of Ascalon, the Franks managed to provoke herds of cattle to flee before their advancing squadrons, disrupting their Fatimid opponents.8 At Saruj in 1101, the Franks attached firebrands to their lances.9 Likewise, the more savvy heavy-cavalry commanders were careful to lure their opponents onto flat ground so as to create a context suitable for their massed charge. An early example of this practice can be seen during Baldwin I of Edessa’s march down to Jerusalem to take power in Jerusalem. Having passed Tripoli he found his enemies massed along the narrow road which traverses the Dog River valley. The narrow ravine was an unsuitable place for a cavalry action so Baldwin managed to draw his enemies further north to an area of level ground before sta­ ging his charge.10 Exactly why the Frankish cavalry were so effective is an interesting question. Sources produced across many cultures allude to the considerable quality and power of such troops, but these were often societies which themselves already deployed heavy cavalry. It is tempting to assume that the Franks were more 6  Recent research suggests that Western knights were generally mounted on horses of between 14–15 hands in height: M. Bennett, ‘The Medieval Warhorse reconsidered’, Medieval Knighthood V, ed. S. Church and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1995), 22. 7 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 40–1. 8  See Chapter 2. 9  ASC1, 76–7. 10  FC, 361.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  221 heavily armoured than their counterparts, but this was not the case. Prior to the First Crusade, the Byzantines, Fatimids, the Abbasid caliphate (under Buyid control), and the Turks fielded cavalry companies equipped with armoured mounts,11 but the Eastern Franks did not typically ride armoured mounts until the late twelfth century.12 Indeed, Mitchell has reasonably questioned the applicability of the term ‘heavy cavalry’ for Frankish knights of this period for this very reason.13 France has also noted that their horses were fairly small.14 By extension, just as heavy cavalry was not unknown in the east, the use of such warriors as shock troops—breaking apart enemy armies through well-timed charges—also had precedents. In 954 at the battle of Hadath a large Byzantine army suffered defeat at the hands of the Hamdanid ruler Sayf ad-Dawla through a decisive charge staged by his force of 500 ghulams.15 Reflecting on these points, it seems more likely that it was the Franks’ skill and unit cohesion, rather than their armament or any unfamiliarity among their foes with heavily armoured cavalry, that gave them their tactical edge. Their use of a counched lance also gave them greater striking power.16 Moreover, the Franks had a gift for striking at their enemies when they were unprepared to receive their assault. As shown above, many Frankish victories hinged on a mass assault against an unprepared enemy camp, often launched at daybreak. Infantry tactics underwent some limited reformation to adapt to Levantine conditions. Again a strong emphasis was placed on discipline. Companies of footmen learned to co-operate more closely with the mounted knights, screening them from the Turks’ lunging attacks until the time was right to unleash the Frankish charge.17 It seems that greater efforts were made to equip them with missile weapons, especially crossbows, enabling them to repel the Turks’ lightcavalry archers. At the time of the Third Crusade, Ayyubid writers made frequent allusion to the dangers of Frankish crossbowmen and the difficulties involved in tackling their tightly formed ranks.18 The deployment of large numbers of infantry crossbowmen on campaign seems to have been fairly unique to the Franks. Turkish and Fatimid forces did make use of crossbowmen but typically only in siege scenarios (for the Turks) while several Byzantine authors declare themselves to be unfamiliar with the weapon, even into the thirteenth century.19 The infantry 11 Such as at the battle of Antioch (GF, 49; France, Western Warfare, 212). See also: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 192; Hamblin, ‘The Fatimid army’, 146–7. 12 Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 103. This is parallel to the earliest armoured warhorses in Western Christendom, see, for example: Gilbert of Mons, Chronicle of Hainaut, trans. L.  Napran (Woodbridge, 2005), 108. 13  R. Mitchell, ‘Light cavalry, heavy cavalry, horse archers, Oh My! What abstract definitions don’t tell us about 1205 Adrianople’, The Journal of Medieval Military History, 6 (2008), 98–9. 14  France, ‘Technology and the success of the First Crusade’, 165; France, Victory in the East, 73. 15 Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics, 277. 16 France, Western Warfare, 160. 17  France, ‘Crusading warfare and its adaptation’, 60. 18  See, for example: IS, 137, 157, 170. 19 AC, 282; Nicholas Mesarites, Nicholas Mesarites: His Life and Works (in translation), trans. M. Angold, Translated Texts for Byzantinists IV (Liverpool, 2017), 225. Although note that there are

222  The Crusader States and their Neighbours were also equipped with shields (probably very large) designed to be used in formation, thereby establishing a protective perimeter. A precise description of infantry formations can be found in the Itinerarium Peregrinorum which speaks of a rank of kneeling spearmen presenting a line of shields with their spears forming a phalanx and their spear-butts planted in the ground. A crossbowman was then positioned between each pair of spearmen, supported by an assistant who acted as a loader.20 The use of such defensive tactics of this kind is mentioned very early with the First Crusaders and the Frankish army at Harran (1104) forming themselves so as to create a ‘shield roof ’ (scutorum testudine).21 Such testudo-type formations probably do not represent ‘innovations’. Such infantry tactics had been in circulation long before the First Crusade, for example in Ninth Century England where they were used at the battle of Ashdown (871).22 William of Poitiers reports that the Norman army at Hastings in 1066 was arrayed in much the same way as later Levantine armies—archer infantry screening cavalry—so claims about in­nov­ ation can only be taken so far.23 The Carolingians and Ottonians employed similar tactics.24 Over time other contingents came to be added to the Frankish hosts. These included turcopole light cavalry. These were typically mounted archers who comprised a substantial chunk of the Frankish cavalry contingent25 and they gave the Franks a chance to mitigate to some degree the advantages enjoyed by Turkish light cavalry. In recent decades there has been some discussion as to their military role; Tibble describes them as the ‘workhorse’ of Frankish armies, providing auxiliary units to support the heavy cavalry in the early years of the Crusader States whilst also acting in many other capacities, particular as forayers.26 Ambroise captures the role of the turcopoles effectively in a throwaway line describing the Cypriot ruler Isaac Comnenus’ attempt to attack Richard of England’s forces during their struggle over the island. He describes how Isaac ambushed the earlier references to the Byzantine use of frame-mounted crossbows: ‘The Praecepta militaria of the Emperor Nikephoros’, 65. The Fatimids seem to have kept a formidable arsenal consisting of different kinds of crossbow, see: al-Qalqashandī, Selections from Ṣubḥ al-A’shā by al-Qalqashandī, 138–9. For Ayyubid references to crossbows see: C. Cahen, ‘Un traité d’armurerie compose pour Saladin’, Bulletin d’études orientales, 12 (1947–1948), 129–34. 20  IP, 416. 21  Translation and original text from: AA, 692–3. See also: AA, 218. 22  B. Bachrach and D. Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe, c.400–c.1453 (Abingdon, 2017), 285. 23  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, 127. 24 D. Bachrach, Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany (Woodbridge, 2012), 154–5. 25  For an excellent survey of the turcopoles and their roles see: Y. Harari, ‘The military role of the Frankish Turcopoles’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 12:1 (1997), 75–116; Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 2, paras 44-62 (online edition). 26 Tibble, Crusading Armies, 120–2. In this he follows the view taken by Harari (cited in above note). See also: A. Savvides, ‘Late Byzantine and western historiographers on Turkish mercenaries in Greek and Latin armies: the Turcopoles/Tourkopouloi’, The Making of Byzantine History: Studies Dedicated to Donald M. Nicol, ed. R. Beaton and C. Roueché (Aldershot, 1993), 122–36.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  223 crusading forces ‘harrying them like a turcopole’; clearly the concept of the turcopole immediately brought skirmishing tactics to mind.27 Whether the use of turcopoles should be considered an ‘innovation’—as is sometimes claimed—is doubtful. Certainly, it is hard to believe that the Franks in some way ‘sat down’ and conceptually designed this type of warrior. It seems far more likely that they, like the Byzantines before them, simply made use of the troops that were available locally and willing to serve. The rise of the military orders also represented a major supplement to Frankish armies. Their strengths were numerous. Splicing the vocation of an aristocratic knight with the monastic virtues of selflessness, hardwork, and strict discipline proved to be a highly potent combination on the battlefield and the larger orders of the Temple and the Hospital were often given the most hazardous tasks, such as forming an army’s vanguard or rearguard. A well-known indicator of their ef­fect­ ive­ness can be seen in the decision taken in 1148 to hand over organizational control of Louis VII’s crusading army to the Knights Templar during its crossing of Anatolia.28 The French forces had recently suffered a major defeat on Mount Cadmus and clearly the Templars were called upon due to their status as expert warriors who fully understood Turkish tactics. In addition to their combat effectiveness, the military orders also had several further virtues. Both the Templars and Hospitallers acquired vast networks of commanderies across Western Christendom whose cumulative purpose was to channel recruits, Crusaders, money and resources to the east. This wealth gave them the ability to construct or garrison fortresses which lay beyond the means of most Levantine rulers/nobles. In addition, both the larger orders could deploy large field forces as well as garrisons which by the 1180s probably included several hundred brother knights each and a much larger contingent of cavalry and infantry (Malcolm Barber suggests that the Templars possessed 600 knights and 2000 sergeants).29 Supplementary manpower was also supplied by smaller military orders such as the order of Mountjoy.30 The great advantage of these field forces was that they did not typically require either pay or resources from secular rulers, who could make use of their troops at very little cost. There is much about these orders that was innovative, especially their way of life and organizational structure, and yet the troops they supplied, whilst excellent in quality, were conventional in their battlefield role (heavy cavalry and infantry). The Turks likewise made some adaptations to address Frankish warcraft. The Turks’ primary weapon was the composite recurved bow; a preference driven by 27 Translation: HHW, vol. 2, 58; Original: HHW, vol. 1, 31 (line 1919). 28  Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici, 124. 29  For discussion on the sizes of their contingents see: A.  Forey, The Military Orders: From the Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Centuries (Toronto, 1992), 77–9; M. Barber, The New Knighthood: a History of the Order of the Temple (Cambridge, 1994), 95. 30  A. Forey, ‘The order of Mountjoy’, Speculum, 46 (1971), 250–66.

224  The Crusader States and their Neighbours their traditional dependence on their herds for raw materials. Archery was deeply ingrained in Turkish culture and—as one of Acre’s Turkish defenders observed to his Welsh opponent during the Third Crusade—they were trained in the use of the bow from birth.31 As several Frankish commentators noted, the Turks’ bows were formed from layers of bone and horn derived from their animals.32 The result was an extremely powerful weapon and authors from many cultures wrote in awe at the efficacy of Turkish massed archery. Writers talk of arrows falling like rain, hail, meteors, or turning the sky black with their shafts; imagery intended to evoke the intimidating scale of the barrage which the Turks could unleash.33 Ambroise provides perhaps the most eloquent account of a Turkish arrow-storm writing, ‘God never created storm of snow or hail or shower in the dews of May, which fell more heavily than the storm of bolts that fell on the army.’34 A particularly favoured Turkic tactic was to occupy a hilltop in the vicinity of a Frankish force and then to rain down arrows so as to force their foes into an uphill attack during which they could inflict heavy casualties, before simply vacating the hilltop.35 An analysis of Turkish archery raises several questions; firstly whether their arrows could pierce chainmail, and secondly whether we should believe the reports that claim the Turks employed poisoned arrows. On the first point, the sources are not unanimous; Albert of Aachen reports Turkish arrows piercing chainmail; most others state that they could not. Authors frequently describe the Turks’ enemies continuing to fight whilst looking like porcupines given the numbers of arrows lodged in their armour, reinforcing the suggestion that the arrows either had not penetrated or had only penetrated a short way.36 Having said this, variations in the size and power of bows carried by individual warriors as well as other factors such as: the range and angle of shot, the quality and thickness of the target’s armour/padding, and the arrow’s weight/fletching/arrowhead would all have played their part in determining the impact of any arrow. Mitchell has performed tests on bows used by mounted steppe archers and their efficacy against mail. These demonstrated that arrows of the kind used by the Turks could be reasonably effective in penetrating mail but rarely penetrated far, causing shallow

31  IP, 108. 32  Other Muslims armies also used horn bows including those in al-Andalus. See, for example, J.  Albarrán, ‘A;-Andalus’, War in the Iberian Peninsula: 700–1600, ed. F.  García-Fitz and J.  Gouveia Monteiro, Themes in Medieval and Early Modern History (Abingdon, 2018), 20; Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 198. 33  AA, 136; IAA(AST), 214; IP, 73. 34 Translation: HHW, vol. 2, 88. 35  For examples see: the battle of Dorylaeum (AA, 134); the skirmishing between Yaghi Siyan’s forces and the First Crusade at Antioch (RA, 50); the battle of Antioch (AA, 330); the Second Crusade (Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici, 126); the Third Crusade (Ansbert, ‘Historia de expeditione Friderici imperatoris’, 80). 36  Sources that state that Turkish arrows could penetrate chainmail: AA, 192. Sources which state that Turkish arrows could not penetrate chainmail (and/or which contain descriptions of Frankish warriors covered with arrows): Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 5, 35; IP, 279, 423; WT, 784; IS, 170.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  225 wounds or failing to cut through the padding worn under armour. This finding tallies with the rather mixed evidence supplied by the primary sources and chimes with the frequently evoked image of the Frankish knight—still fighting— but covered in trailing arrows.37 Regarding poisoned arrows, references to such missiles can be found in several accounts of the First Crusade.38 These descriptions however were all written by non-participants and there are no subsequent references to such weapons being used after the First Crusade by the authors of any culture. On these grounds, their claims look dubious and yet it is notable that two tenth-century sources— a Byzantine military manual and the geographical survey of Ibn Faqih ­al-Hamadhani—mention the use of poisoned arrows by Turkish warriors.39 One possible scenario is that poison was used by some Turkish tribes but was falling out of use; on this point it is difficult to be sure. These bows were not without their weaknesses and the Franks soon learned that heavy rain could render them useless; the glue binding their layers of bone and horn was water soluble.40 Strong winds could also pose problems and in March 1108 the Arab leader Sadaqa of the Banu Mazyad attempted to defeat a Turkish army by positioning his forces so that the wind would blow in their faces (forcing them to shoot into the wind). Unfortunately for him, the wind suddenly changed direction to blow towards the Arab army, thus having the reverse effect and enhancing the power of the Turkish bowmen.41 Another battle in which strong winds may have played a part is the battle of Antioch fought against Karbugha (June 1098). Understanding this battle and why the Franks were able to achieve victory against a vastly superior force has long posed a major problem for historians. In essence, a predominantly infantry-based Frankish army (which had lost almost all its horses) marched out of the city of Antioch, driving off and defeating a Turkish host made up largely of mounted archers. Theoretically, the Franks should not have won the battle because they should not have been able to engage the Turks in hand-to-hand combat. The Turks were long accustomed to riding herd to vulnerable, slow-moving forces of

37 Mitchell, ‘Archery versus Mail’, 18–28. For further discussion see: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 141, 181; Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 160. 38  WM, 602; Gilo of Paris, The Historia Vie Hierosolimitane, ed. C. Grocock and J. Siberry, OMT (Oxford, 1997), 72; Robert the Monk, The Historia Iherosolimitana of Robert the Monk, ed. D. Kempf and M. Bull (Woodbridge, 2013), 23, 25, 75. 39  ‘Ibn Faqīh al-Hamadhānī: on the Turks and their lands’, The Turkic Peoples in Medieval Arabic Writings, trans. Y. Frenkel, Routledge Studies in the History of Iran and Turkey (Abingdon, 2015), 51; The Sylloge Tacticorum, 97. 40  FC, 342. Presumably Turkish bowstrings were also vulnerable to the wet, like most bowstrings. Byzantine authors were also well aware of these weaknesses, see: The Taktika of Leo VI, 481, 577; C. Bowlus, ‘tactical and strategic weaknesses of horse archers on the eve of the First Crusade’, Autour de la première croisade, ed. M. Balard, Publications de la Sorbonne: Série Byzantina Sorbonensia XIV (Paris, 1996), 160–1. 41  IAA(C), vol. 1, 129. See also: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 123.

226  The Crusader States and their Neighbours this kind, encircling them, shooting them down, and using their nimble ponies to evade close combat. Consequently, it is necessary to ask why the Turks were prepared to jettison their conspicuous tactical advantage to close with their foe. One possibility is raised by Ralph of Caen who describes how God sent a wind from the north-west to defeat the Turks, whipping up a fire which the Turks had already started and driving the smoke in their eyes. Could the combination of wind and smoke have disrupted the Turks’ archery and forced them into close combat? This would provide a plausible solution to this problem, however, it can only remain tentative because Ralph of Caen’s reference to a north-west wind forms part of an extended discourse about this wind doing battle with an east wind—clearly a metaphor for the clash between the two combatant armies.42 Whether there is any factual basis to this stylized account is impossible to know, nevertheless, a case has recently been made—discussing Ralph’s account of the battle of Dorylauem—that he should be taken seriously as an observer of military affairs; certainly several sources note the fires started by Karbugha’s army.43 By the time of the Third Crusade, these bows were known among the Franks as ‘Damascus bows’; seemingly a reference to the fact that Damascus was a major arms emporium for the entire region.44 Several later authors note that both the components for making bows as well as completed bows could be acquired there in large numbers.45 A counter-measure against Turkish archery devised by the Franks during the First Crusade was to conduct their marches at night when archery was im­pos­ sible, forcing the Turks to choose either to allow the Franks to travel without hindrance or to risk hand-to-hand combat. For the same reason, during Karbugha’s siege of Antioch, the Franks besieging the Turkish held citadel within the city worked at night to build an earth rampart to protect themselves against any Turkish sally.46 Night marches were also used on offensive incursions to give the attacking Frankish forces the element of surprise.47 The Turks’ reliance on mounted archers rendered them both fast moving and tactically flexible. Using deeply ingrained hunting and herding techniques, they were well practiced at surrounding and corralling their enemies, operating in small semi-independent groups and attacking from multiple directions and springing ambushes; a very different kind of approach to the more rigid and static

42  RC, 77. 43  RA, 81. B.  Bachrach and D.  Bachrach, ‘Ralph of Caen as a military historian’, Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations. Essays in Honour of John France, ed. S. John and N. Morton, Crusade: Subsidia VII (Farnham, 2014), 87–99. 44 Quotation: HHW, vol. 1, 36 (line 2209). 45  John of Joinville, ‘The Life of Saint Louis’, 255; al-Umari, Egypt and Syria, 67; ‘A critical edition of an unknown source for the life of al-Malik al-Zahir Baibars’, 477. 46  RC, 67–8. 47  WT, 999.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  227 formations employed by the Franks. These tactics are explained very clearly by Gardizi when describing the great Seljuk victory over the Ghaznavids at Dandanqan in 1040: the Turkmen tribes ‘set about preparing for battle and followed their usual practice in forming up for battle, since they fight in separate compact groups and they all deployed themselves thus’.48 The Anatolian Turks, when confronted by an advancing Crusader army, generally preferred to gather their forces on the hilltops either side of the Crusaders’ route. From these vantage points they could then rain arrows upon the advancing Franks whilst extracting a heavy toll from any attacking force sent to dislodge them. During Emperor Frederick I of Germany’s crossing of Anatolia his forces discovered that the Turks grouped baggage mules loaded with sheaves of arrows on the opposite side of the hills along with their flocks and herds; thereby ensuring that they retained a steady supply.49 Having reviewed Turkish tactics during this period, there is little that could be described as ‘innovation’. Indeed, it may have been thought that innovation was unnecessary given the efficacy of their longstanding military traditions. By the time of the First Crusade, companies of Turkish horse-archers had already proven their worth against multiple enemies including the Ghaznavids, the Buyids, the Byzantines, and the Arab polities of Northern Syria and Iraq (such as the Banu Uqayl and the Banu Mazyad). A further indicator of the Turks’ effectiveness in war is the sheer number of civilizations who sought out Turkish cavalry as mer­ cen­ar­ies. These include: Byzantium, the Fatimids, the Crusader States, and the Abbasid Empire (before it was conquered by the Turks). Another example which underlines the Turks’ reputation in war is an account of the Yemeni ruler Jayyash’s (r. 1089–1104) recruitment of 3000 Turkish warriors. Apparently, having recruited them, he became so concerned at the threat they might pose to his own authority that he sought to thin their ranks by repeated acts of mass poisoning.50 In the wake of the Turks’ many conquests, several Turkish commanders began to adopt the sedentary lifestyle practiced by the many communities now under their rule. Moreover, from the beginning, some of the tribes who joined the Seljuk invasions of the eleventh century had been partially/wholly agricultural in their way of life, while there were also plenty of Turks who had lived for decades in the caliphate who were more acclimatized to life in a predominantly agricultural society. So, by the time of the First Crusade, the Turks were midway through a process of cultural transition. Some were acquiring the trappings, habits, and 48  Translation: Gardizi, The Ornament of Histories: A History of the Eastern Islamic Lands AD 650– 1041: The Persian text of Abu Sa’id ‘Abd al-Hayy Gardizi, ed. and trans. by C. E. Bosworth (London, 2018), 110. 49  ‘Historia de Expeditione Friderici’, MGH SRGNS, ed. A. Chroust, vol. 5 (Berlin, 1928), 80.  50  Yaman: Its Early Medieval History by Najm al-Din ‘Omārah al-Ḥ akami, trans. H.  C.  Kay (London, 1892), 105.

228  The Crusader States and their Neighbours armaments of agricultural societies; others remained almost wholly nomadic. Many adopted elements from both ways of life. In practice, it was often the Turkish urban ruling elites located at Damascus, Aleppo, and Mosul who were the most acclimatized. Rule over major cities and their satellite towns steered their perspective towards the geopolitics of the native agricultural peoples under their control, rather than preoccupations over seasonal migrations and grazing grounds more characteristic of pastoral societies. The troops serving within their immediate following—the askar—were almost certainly among the best equipped and mounted. Major cities commanded large revenues and their masters could afford to grant their followers iqtas51 that would enable them to purchase high quality arms. Rulers also generally built up their formations of Mamluks while urban revenue gave these rulers the ability both to support other freeborn cavalrymen with iqtas as well as to hire Turkmen troops, who generally expected either pay or the promise of substantial plunder.52 Describing a conversation between Tughtakin and Ilghazi concerning their ransom demands for Frankish prisoners taken during the battle of the Field of Blood (1119) Ilghazi is said to have commented: ‘we need every single dinar to pay our Turkmen troops’.53 The final major contingent comprised infantry levies drawn from major cities such as Damascus, Aleppo, Tripoli, Shaizar, Hama, and Homs. Infantry forces fighting for Turkish masters make only occasional appearances in the sources for this period, with most references pertaining to engagements fought in defence of major cities or their immediate hinterland. Their ef­fect­ive­ ness in battle has, as shown above, received rather mixed reports. Like the Franks, the Turks showed little sign of innovating beyond their customary conduct in war, but they did make some adaptations. Perhaps the most significant of these was the emphasis placed by rulers such as Nur al-Din and Saladin on the expansion of their heavy cavalry forces. As shown above, this was not an innovation—Turkish commanders had long employed heavily armoured cavalry—but the Frankish sources reflect an awareness that their foes were becoming better armoured and more willing to engage them in hand-to-hand combat on an equal footing. Notably, from the mid-1160s onwards, William of Tyre began to divide Nur al-Din’s armies into heavily armoured cavalry and mounted archers (a case in point being the battle of al-Balbein).54 Marino Sanudo

51  Exactly what rights and incomes pertained to iqtas could vary in different regions/periods but for the most part an iqta holder had the right to enjoy the fiscal revenues of a specific landholding or income source. 52  Durand-Guédy, ‘Goodbye to the Türkmens?’, 117. For further discussion see: Bombaci, ‘The army of the Saljuqs of Rūm’, 347, 354. 53  Translation: UIM, 132. See also: KAD, 612; IQ, 80, 175; Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 5, 25. For discussion on the use of Turkmen troops see: Zouache, Armées et combats en Syrie, chapter 2, paras 76-86 (online edition 54  WT, 898. See also: Lev, ‘Infantry in Muslim armies’, 197; Lev, Saladin in Egypt, 144–5.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  229 later outlined this developed—albeit in a rather over-the-top manner—as follows: When the Latins had first entered the land they [the Turks] were unskilled in warfare and almost unarmed going to war only with bows. Now by use and exercise, and frequent meeting with the Christians, they had more fully took on the discipline of knighthood and they used Latin styles in armour, shields, helmets, swords and lances.55

It is rather jarring to hear Sanudo describe the eleventh-century Turks as ‘unskilled in war’ given that they had just conquered the bulk of the Near East, but nonetheless he is undoubtedly right in his claim that the Zangid/Ayyubid Turks in Syria built up their heavy cavalry in response to the Franks. The Franks’ role in precipitating this development is referenced several sources. For example, when describing Saladin’s assault on Qilij Arslan II, Seljuk Sultan of Anatolia, in 1180 Michael the Syrian observed that even though both armies were comprised of Turks, the Seljuks refused to fight Saladin’s army because his armies had gained experience fighting the Franks.56 A little later there is an interesting story concerning a Frankish knight called John Gale who committed murder and then fled to take refuge with Saladin. After his arrival, Saladin put him to work training his nephew how to fight like a Frankish knight; clearly the Franks set the benchmark for this kind of warfare.57 Viewed in the long term, the Turks’ cap­ acity to confront the Franks in hand-to-hand combat probably improved over time and it is notable that on 3 July 1191 at the siege of Acre (Third Crusade), the Turkish forces assaulting the Crusader encampment were prepared to dismount from their horses and attack the Franks on foot across a ditch equipped with melee weapons. This bold stroke suggests far greater confidence in close combat.58 These developments were not unique, either to Nur al-Din or to Saladin but reflect broader trends across the Near East and al-Andalus by which Muslim ­rulers began to bulk up their contingents of heavy cavalry in response to the threat posed by Frankish knights.59

Feigning Flight Having summarized the broader developments instituted by both the Franks and  Turks, the next few sections will focus on some of the distinct techniques employed by one—or both—factions. The Franks’ practice of ‘fighting marches’ 55  Translation: Marino Sanudo, The Book of Secrets, 302. 57  La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, 58. 58  IP, 222. 59  Albarrán, ‘Al-Andalus’, 22.

56  MS, 719.

230  The Crusader States and their Neighbours has already been discussed above but more could be said on other techniques such as the Turks’ customary practice of feigning flight in battle. Such ‘Parthian tactics’ essentially involved an army/contingent seeming to suddenly fall back, so as to convince their enemy that they have been routed. It was anticipated that the enemy would then break up their own formations so as to engage in a pursuit, only then to fall prey to a counter-attack by their seemingly beaten foe. This could be done very effectively. In 1191, while Richard I was mustering his forces for his advance south from Acre towards Jaffa, a group of Hungarian knights were provoked to pursue a company of Turkish troops, but they went too far, lost contact with the main army, and were slaughtered.60 The Turks were—of course—widely renowned for their expertise with such techniques, but they were not alone. Many of the protagonists in the wars of the Near East had longstanding traditions of employing feigned flight tactics in a range of different contexts long before the First Crusade. Byzantine military manuals repeatedly advocate such approaches, and the Bedouin were well known to use these ploys.61 Regarding Frankish armies, Albert of Aachen claims that the First Crusaders knew little of feigned flight tactics and Leo VI’s Taktika notes that Frankish forces were easily disrupted with this kind of approach.62 Even so, William of Poitiers famously ascribed such a stratagem to William the Conqueror at Hastings in 1066.63 Whether his report constitutes a factually accurate representation of Duke William’s actual deeds remains an open question; the point is that William of Poitiers—like other writers describing the same stratagem— anticipated that his readers would understand the significance feigning flight as a martial practice.64 The Normans in Southern Italy and Sicily also used these tactics, with possibly the earliest example being Robert Guiscard’s raid on Messina in c.1060;65 so too did the Ottonians, for example at the battle of Andernach (876).66 Discussing the practice of feigning flight, it is generally only one manifestation of this stratagem that has received attention from scholars to date; this is the ‘tactical’ feigned retreat, executed during a battle or skirmish. It needs to be recognized, however, that the practice of ‘feigning flight’ embraces a broader cluster of tactics that here will be divided into three separate types: (1) siege (2) strategic, and (3) tactical.

60  IP, 246–7. 61  The Sylloge Tacticorum, 23, 44; ‘Skirmishing’, 207; ‘The Anonymous Byzantine Treatise on Strategy’, 119. For discussion see: Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics, 220, 250, 280–1, 284. 62  AA, 184; The Taktika of Leo VI, 469. 63  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, 132. 64  See also: WM, vol. 1, 452. 65 Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae’, 29–30. See also: Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 157 and also (159). 66 Bachrach, Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany, 196–7. See also: G. Theotokis, ‘The square “fighting march” of the crusaders at the battle of Ascalon (1099)’, Journal of Medieval Military History, 11 (2013), 59.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  231 Feigning flight in a siege situation essentially involved making a provocative assault upon a fortification with only a very small number of troops, the idea being to sting the garrison into a pursuit that would then draw them out of their fortress only to fall into a pre-prepared ambush. The first known example of this practice being used against Frankish forces during the First Crusade came shortly after their conquest of Artah in the autumn of 1097. Yaghi Siyan, governor of Antioch, responded by sending his forces to recapture the town and his troops opened their offensive with an attack staged by a mere thirty horsemen against the town. The intention here was to initiate a pursuit, which duly occurred, leading the Franks into an ambush.67 This was not, however, the earliest ‘siege’ feigned flight to occur during the First Crusade; the first occurred shortly before this when Tancred used a similar ruse against the Turkish garrison in Tarsus during his Cilician campaign. He sent a small raiding party to the walls to trigger a response from the Turks. This force then withdrew, drawing the Turks into a trap.68 Certainly the Normans did not need either the First Crusade or the Turks to teach them this ploy and it is much in evidence during their earlier Sicilian campaigns. Geoffrey Malaterra records the use of ‘siege’ feigned flights by both the Normans and the Sicilian Muslims.69 For example, in 1062, Count Roger of Sicily adopted this tactic against the stronghold of Castrogiovanni, sending his nephew Serlo to provoke a response and then to lead the defenders into an ambush.70 In later years, feigned flights were frequently used in ‘siege’ situations. Usama Ibn Munqidh recalled an occasion when the Antiochene garrison of Kafartab raided Shaizar and a small group of horsemen attacked the gates and then fled, drawing their Arab pursuers into an ambush. On this occasion, however, their plan failed and Usama reports that the Franks were beaten off.71 The same ruse failed in 1119 when Ilghazi sent a decoy party from his main army to attack alAtharib only to suffer badly from an ensuing Frankish cavalry charge.72 On occasion Frankish chroniclers express their distaste at such stratagems, but there is little to suggest that this prevented commanders from employing them.73 The Byzantines likewise employed this practice and John Kinnamos reports John Comnenus using it to conquer the town of Sozopolis. Both John Kinnamos and later Nicetas Choniates present this as a novel and daring stroke and yet it was surely not an innovation because Byzantine forces and their neighbours had 67  AA, 184. 68  RC, 35–6. 69 For an example of Muslim forces using this tactic see: Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae’, 62. 70  Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae’, 42. It is also interesting to note that in the late thirteenth century, feigned flight tactics would also be used in naval confrontations by the Aragonese-Sicilian commander Roger of Lauria: C. Stanton, Roger of Lauria (c.1250–1305) ‘Admiral of Admirals’ (Woodbridge, 2019), 164–6, 207. 71  UIM, 70. 72  WC, 81. 73  WC, 81.

232  The Crusader States and their Neighbours been using such ploys for centuries and this kind of tactic is well represented in the Greek military manuals of the tenth century.74 The second ‘strategic’ form of feigning flight involved entering enemy territory and making a deliberate gesture so as to pose a conspicuous threat, such as raiding a village. Then, having provoked their enemy to move against them, the attackers would then withdraw into their own territory, seemingly unwilling to give battle. They would then draw their opponent out well away from their own borders before staging a direct and unexpected attack on ground of their own choosing. Turkish commanders tried this approach on many occasions and several of their greatest victories were won with just such a ruse including: Harran (1104), Inab (1149), and Harim (1164). This approach was not always successful. As shown above, in 1183 when Saladin conducted a ‘strategic’ feigned flight, trying to lure Guy away from the kingdom of Jerusalem’s borders, Guy refused to be drawn. In 1115, when Bursuq of Hamadhan conducted such a withdrawal so as to break up the Frankish/Turkish coalition opposing him, he was tracked down and defeated by the Antiochene forces at Tell Danith. The Franks also employed this approach on a few occasions. Examples include Tancred’s staged withdrawal in 1105 prior to his victory at Artah against Ridwan of Aleppo.75 Fulk of Anjou’s victory at Qinnisrin in 1134 also fits this definition. The third type—‘tactical’ feigned flight—is the best known and the Turks’ use of this tactic requires little introduction. The Turks had long practiced such tactics and back in 1035 during the battle of Nasa against the Ghaznavids they managed to use a simulated withdrawal to lure their enemy into precisely this kind of surprise attack.76 As is well known, the Turks similarly attempted to use this stratagem against the Franks in many encounters, who learned to be cautious about pursuing their foes. It is notable for example that during a skirmish that took place while Guy of Lusignan’s was advancing on Acre in 1189, he specifically sent out scouts to ensure that, if the enemy force withdrew, there was no larger force waiting in ambush behind them.77 In addition, the Franks themselves made use of this tactic. Baldwin I and Baldwin II used ‘tactical’ feigned flights to win multiple battles including: Dog River (1100), The Second battle of Azaz (1125), and possibly Marj al-Suffar (1126).78 Perhaps the most complex example of this approach took place at Azaz in June 1125 when Baldwin II was surrounded by a large Turkish army. Early in the morning, Baldwin raised camp and marched rapidly away from Azaz, heading towards Antioch, giving the impression that he was

74  JK, 15; NC, 9. 75  RC, 129–30. 76 Beyhaqi, The History of Beyhaqi: the History of Sultan Mas’ud of Ghazna, 1030–1041 by Abu’lFażl Beyhaqi, trans. C. E. Bosworth, rev. M. Ashtiany, vol. 2, Ilex Foundation Series VI (Boston, MA, 2011), 148. 77  IS, 92. 78  Dog River (1100): FC, 361; Second Battle of Azaz (1125): ASC1, 98; Marj al-Saffar (1126): FC, 790.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  233 in full retreat. The Turks duly gave chase, provoking the garrison of Azaz to make a pre-arranged smoke signal, warning Baldwin that his foe was now in pursuit. Then at a propitious moment, Baldwin’s forces suddenly rounded upon the Turks who were in no position to evade their sudden cavalry assault.79 Taken overall, both the Franks and the Turks employed feigned flight tactics from the outset, but there is little to suggest much innovation or cross-cultural adaptation. The ruses they employed during the First Crusade (and later) were not so very different to those which had been used for centuries.

Learning to Defeat Frankish Heavy Cavalry The massed cavalry charge was the Franks’ signature tactic and its great military virtue was the knights’ ability to score victories even when substantially outnumbered. The trauma inflicted upon enemy formations by the sudden impact of a squadron of mounted knights was frequently decisive, causing contingents to break and flee almost immediately, whilst sending ripples of disorder through neighbouring formations. Ralph of Caen vividly described the intense sensory impact of the charge writing: ‘dust rose up, arms rang, hooves stomped, shields clanged, eyes were blinded, ears were deafened, and they overwhelmed the hearts of their enemies’.80 Likewise, he and other authors illustrate the shockwaves passing through an army directly following a Frankish charge using metaphors such as a hawk scattering birds.81 For Guibert of Nogent, Frankish knights were like rams.82 Anna Comnena claimed that a Frank could break through the walls of Babylon.83 Having said this, Frankish knights faced specific challenges in the Near East that they would not have encountered in Western Christendom. This was not the tournament field and their enemy could not be relied upon to share their enthusiasm for a crushing melee in the centre of the battlefield. The Turks knew that their light cavalry squadrons, often mounted on smaller ponies, could not survive a full cavalry charge and consequently they made it their business to scatter in the face of the oncoming cavalry, thereby denying them any meaningful target. A failed charge could be a major problem for Christian knights. If their horses became exhausted, and if they became too detached from the shelter offered by their infantry contingents, then they could become vulnerable. Frankish warhorses during this period were rarely armoured; thus, if a cavalry force should 79  ASC1, 98. 80  Translation: Ralph of Caen, The Gesta Tancredi of Ralph of Caen: a History of the Normans on the First Crusade, trans. B. Bachrach and D. Bachrach, Crusade Texts in Translation XII (Farnham, 2007), 82 (Latin: RC, 55) 81  Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae et Siciliae Comitis’, 44. 82  GN, 169. 83  AC, 378.

234  The Crusader States and their Neighbours slow the pace of its advance then the Turks could surround it and shoot it down. Several accounts state explicitly that the Turks intentionally targeted Frankish horses rather than Frankish riders;84 they recognized this weakness; after all ‘when he [a Frankish knight] is unsaddled he becomes anyone’s prize’.85 Consequently, and from the very beginning, a brutal contest emerged that played out in some form in most of the battles of this era. For the Turks, the objective was to avoid the Frankish cavalry for as long as possible, evading and exhausting them whilst withering them with archery and trying to lead them away from their infantry. For the Franks, their cavalry needed to impact as quickly and as hard as possible against their foe. Discipline was crucial if this was to work and several studies have shown that Eastern Frankish forces demanded a far higher level of obedience from their knights than their kin in the West.86 This was a tricky game and both sides had techniques to strengthen their pos­ ition. The Franks employed an approach familiar to the Normans in their conquest of Italy and Sicily during the eleventh century by dividing their cavalry into a series of companies.87 The idea was that these companies would strike the enemy percussively with each succeeding wave seeking to assault the enemy forces wherever they gathered, routing them and forcing them to scatter time and time again until they eventually withdrew. The Franks’ many battles against the Fatimids or the ‘Lake battle’ during the First Crusade provide classic examples of this approach in operation. Even so, this strategy did not always work. At the Field of Blood (1119) the charging Frankish squadrons impeded one another, causing the charge to lose impetus and ultimately to fail.88 Another Frankish approach, as shown above, was to attack their enemies when they were unprepared for battle. On several occasions, the Franks assembled flying columns comprised largely (possibly solely) of cavalry who then staged sudden, often long-distance attacks upon their enemies when they were either in camp or on the march. On each occasion a small force of a few hundred Frankish knights proved capable of destroying vastly superior enemy forces, often taking very few casualties themselves. Many examples could be supplied, but perhaps the most obvious include: Saruj (1101), Tortosa (1102), third battle of Ramla (1105), Tell Danith (1115), Ibelin (1123), al-Buqayˊa (1163), and Montgisard (1177). Of course the underlying principle when using such flying columns was that their enemies—whether in camp or on the march—were either grouped in a single location and/or were unable to take evasive action before the knights reached their position. The above were all major battles, but the Franks also used flying columns of knights to win many smaller encounters, winning less decisive 84  WC, 104. Emperor Alexius gave similar advice: AC, 377. 85  Translation: AC, 378. For a pre-Crusade example see: MA, 349. 86  See for example: Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 135. 87  Geoffrey Malaterra, ‘De rebus gestis Rogerii Calabriae’, 34, 43; Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 134. 88  WC, 88.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  235 actions but against similarly outrageous odds. The Aleppan historian Kamal alDin reports that in 1122 a force of 1000 Turkish cavalry, whilst returning from a raid against Azaz, was destroyed by a troop of only forty Frankish knights led by a commander named William.89 To date, historians have always recognized the importance of the cavalry charge, but they have tended to describe such man­ oeuvres as taking place in co-operation with infantry formations. Certainly there are many examples of cavalry and infantry working in concert, but the point to be made here is that there were scenarios where the cavalry could win battles by themselves; in many of the cases discussed throughout this work, the infantry were either marginal to these victories or simply not present; cavalry could win battles by themselves. Such strategies could be used to great effect, but in practice they differed little from the tactics used by Norman forces, both in Southern Italy and Sicily or in Byzantine employ in previous decades.90 On the other side of the battlefield, the Turks had their own ideas about tackling Frankish knights. The First Crusade was not their first encounter with such warriors and back in the 1070s the ex-Byzantine mercenary Roussel de Bailleul is known to have won battles with cavalry charges.91 This experience and, very likely, the experience of encountering other similar forces in Byzantine employ would have meant that Frankish cavalry was not entirely unknown prior to the First Crusade.92 The advent of the Crusader States did however re-emphasize the Turks’ need to devise a response. As shown above, the Turks’ most obvious recourse was simply to evade an oncoming charge, but as the century developed, commanders began to devise several further stratagems. A few of these have already been mentioned: shooting down Frankish horses; staging sudden ambushes; and seeking to fight battles in hilly or craggy terrain unsuitable for cavalry charges. These all went some way towards mitigating the Frankish cavalry’s inherent advantages. In 1122 the Artuqid leader Balak managed to draw Joscelin of Courtenay into an area of marshy ground where many horses sank, thus immobilizing the Edessan cavalry.93 Another potential factor—albeit one that is rather difficult to measure—is the Turks’ use of heavy maces when confronting heavily armoured knights. As impact weapons, these maces were not designed to cut through armour, but to send shockwaves through it. In this way they partially nullified one of the armoured Franks’ major strengths.94 Turkic peoples had often made use of these weapons, so this was not an innovation, but they could be used to great effect against Frankish knights.95 Certainly the Western Christian chroniclers have an 89  KAD, 633. 90  See, for example Isaac Comnenus’ struggle with Roussel de Bailleul (MA, 339). 91  See for example: MA, 333. 92  MA, 333; 345. 93  ASC1, 90. 94 Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 157. 95  Other Turkic peoples made use of maces including the Cumans see: A. Madgearu, The Asanids: The Political and Military History of the Second Bulgarian Empire (1185–1280), East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages XLI (Leiden, 2017), 150.

236  The Crusader States and their Neighbours increasingly propensity to mention these fearsome weapons during the twelfth century, references occurring frequently both in the chronicles and the Chanson de Jerusalem.96 It is also notable that in the late 1140s, Sayf al-Din of Mosul made it obligatory for his mounted troops to carry maces (within a broader inventory of weaponry).97 The Franks recognized their utility in combat and paid their op­pon­ents the compliment of adopting these weapons among their own forces. The Templar rule lists a ‘Turkish mace’ among the standard equipment supplied to brother knights.98 A more specific tactic began to appear in the sources from the 1140s onwards, the earliest example dating to 1146. In this year, Joscelin II of Edessa tried and failed to reconquer Edessa and, having entered the city, was soon compelled to evacuate. What followed was a disastrous defeat as the Christian army was worn down and then routed. A crucial moment in this process occurred when a group of Frankish knights charged out from the marching Christian column, seeking to engage and destroy Nur al-Din’s army. Nevertheless, Nur al-Din’s troops simply divided their ranks sending the knights hurtling through the gap without making contact.99 In short, Nur al-Din had deliberately given the Franks precisely the kind of target they wanted—a big block of troops ripe to be destroyed by a cavalry charge—but had primed his troops to divide their ranks seconds before impact, causing the charge to miss its target. This approach, requiring considerable nerve and discipline, was essentially an adaptation of long-standing steppe practices, nevertheless it worked very efficiently against Frankish charges. A similar tactic was later employed by Shirkuh at the battle of al-Balbein in Egypt (1167).100 Notably Saladin himself was present at this battle and it seems possible that this experience served as the inspiration for his own decisive use of this manoeuvre in 1187 during the final stages of the battle of Hattin. On this occasion Raymond of Tripoli charged Saladin’s lines but again, their forces divided and then closed behind him.101 There were also occasions when the Turks adopted the Frankish practice of storming through an enemy’s camp when they were unprepared for battle. In 1116 a combined army led by Tughtakin of Damascus an al-Bursuqi of Mosul scored a notable victory over the county of Tripoli’s army in the Biqa valley using precisely this approach.102 Perhaps the most obvious adaptation, however, was— as mentioned above—the development of larger and better armed forces of

96 Examples: Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, 118–20; ‘Chanson de Jérusalem’, The Chanson des Chétifs and Chanson de Jérusalem, trans. C. Sweetenham, Crusade Texts in Translation XXIX (Farnham, 2016), 206–7, 213, 241, 262, 279, 296. 97  IAA(HA), 167. 98  La Règle du Temple, ed. H. de Curzon (Paris, 1886), 110. 99  ASC2, 296. 100  IAA(C), vol. 2, 164. 101  IAA(C), vol. 2, 322. Sultan Baybars used the same strategy see: Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 161. 102  IQ, 154.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  237 Turkish heavy cavalry which could meet the Franks on something approaching equal terms.

Identifying the Cross-cultural Transmission of Ideas and Tactics An ongoing debate among scholars interested in crusading warfare is the extent to which the Franks drew upon Byzantine military advice/precedents when adapting their own warcraft to the Near Eastern exigencies. Many scholars have identified distinctive military manoeuvres or formations adopted by the Franks which—so it is claimed—seem to draw on Byzantine precedents. This is a challenging topic because proving the transmission of ideas from one culture to another is rarely simple.103 Often when two military cultures behave in similar ways, utilizing similar formations or tactics, it is difficult to identify who influenced who; or indeed if these formations evolved separately. For example, there is a debate surrounding the genesis of the abovementioned ‘fighting marches’—was this an independent Frankish development? Or a Byzantine innovation which the Franks then borrowed? Or a Frankish development which the Byzantines then borrowed? Let us begin by considering the possibility that the Franks borrowed the idea of using this formation from the Greeks. It could be pointed out that the Greeks had utilized similar tactics in their struggles against light cavalry forces, long before the advent of the Turks. Theotokis, for example, identifies a ‘fighting march’ being employed by the Byzantine army in its battle against the Fatimids across Orontes near Apamea in 998.104 Likewise, several Byzantine military manuals, produced in the tenth century, contain guidance for marching long distances in a defensible formation.105 More specifically Theotokis has identified similarities between the First Crusaders’ ‘fighting march’ formation in the opening phases of the battle of Ascalon (a square formation, three units across and three deep) and Byzantine precedents.106 On these grounds, it could be suggested that the Franks purposefully adopted this tried and tested Byzantine approach during/after the First Crusade. 103  For a highly thought provoking discussion on the issue of identifying cross-cultural borrowing see: B.  Kedar and C.  Aslanov, ‘Problems in the study of trans-cultural borrowing in the Frankish Levant’, Hybride Kulturen im mittelalterlichen Europa, ed. M. Borgolte and B. Schneidmüller, Europa im Mittelalter XVI (Berlin, 2010), 277–85. 104 Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics, 288. 105 See, for example: The Sylloge Tacticorum, 81; The Taktika of Leo VI, 155; Constantine Porphyrogenitus, Three Treatises on Imperial Military Expeditions, ed. and trans. J. F. Haldon, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae XXVIII (Vienna, 1990), 125. For a detailed discussion on the Byzantine use of fighting marches, including earlier precedents, and also for Bennett’s concerns that Byzantine commanders may not actually have been able to implement these tactics in the late eleventh century see: M. Bennett, ‘The Crusaders’ ‘fighting march’ revisited’, War in History, 8:1 (2001), 2–8. 106  Theotokis, ‘The square “fighting march”’, 57–71. For a contemporary account see: RA, 156.

238  The Crusader States and their Neighbours There are however problems with such a verdict. For example, when in 1116 Alexius Comnenus is reported to have deployed his army into a distinctive fighting march formation, Anna Comnena hailed this as a new invention. This in turn suggests that Alexius may have reimagined an approach that had long fallen out of use; indicating by extension that Byzantines could not have influenced the Franks to use this formation in previous years.107 As has been rightly pointed out, Anna’s testimony needs careful handling, given her conspicuous desire to celebrate her father’s achievements,108 but her claims only thicken the dilemma. To take a further problem, Nicolle has noted that the formation adopted by the Franks at Ascalon was ‘astonishingly similar’ to those used in other Eurasian armies including the Turks, ‘Perso-Indians’, and the Chinese. Needless to say some of these cultures could not possibly have influenced the Crusaders but it demonstrates that such a formation was hardly specific to the Byzantines—creating a broader set of possibilities when considering who influenced the Franks (if anyone).109 The Franks may also have developed this formation unilaterally and there are several reports that indicate that their forces were deployed in a fighting march formation long before 1116 (so they were already practicing this approach before Alexius campaign in 1116). There are distinctive accounts of them arrayed in a fighting march in 1111 (Tancred of Antioch’s retreat from Shaizar) as well as at the abovementioned battle of Ascalon (1099).110 How then should this tangled knot of evidence be unravelled? Firstly, the Franks could have developed the ‘fighting march’ independently during the First Crusade with little or no as­sist­ ance from the Greeks. True, there are some similarities between their conduct at Ascalon and Byzantine exemplars, but the Franks’ conduct in this battle can only loosely be defined as a fighting march; it was more a fortified opening move from which the Frankish units fanned out to assault their enemies. Possibly the constant skirmishing they encountered whilst crossing Asia Minor would have guided them to protect themselves during this arduous passage by developing this approach. This is a very plausible scenario that has been discussed by several historians.111 The idea that the Franks learned this approach through experience calls to mind the later crossing of Asia Minor by Louis VII during the Second Crusade when, following his major defeat at Mount Cadmus, he authorized the Templars to fundamentally restructure the army in such a way as to repel future attacks.112 In his case at least, bitter experience proved to be an effective teacher 107  AC, 438–43. 108 Tibble, Crusading Armies, 140. 109 Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 62. 110  For discussion on fighting marches in various scenarios see: Bennett, ‘The Crusaders’ “fighting march”’, 11–12. 111  Smail for example weighs the possibility that this formation was borrowed from Byzantium but feels that it is more likely to have been a response learned by the Crusaders to Turkish light cavalry: Smail, Crusading Warfare, 199. 112  Odo of Deuil, De profectione Ludovici, 124.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  239 and the same may well be true for other campaigns. Following this argument through, and with the early Frankish use of ‘fighting marches’ in mind, the subsequent Byzantine use of the fighting march (1116) could then either be a con­tinu­ ation of earlier practices or even—if it had fallen out of use—a direct borrowing from the Franks themselves, who had proved its efficacy.113 The other scenario—more likely—is that Anna Comnena was greatly exaggerating her father’s creativity when she suggested that he dreamed up the ‘fighting march’ formation in 1116. Such formations were actually still familiar in Greek military circles. Examples can be found of Byzantine armies conducting fighting marches in the eleventh century, for example against the Pechenegs in the 1050s and against the Banu Kilab (rulers of Aleppo) with Turkmen allies in late 1068.114 Thus this tactic had not fallen out of use; the Byzantines probably did not acquire it from the Franks and they may even have played a role in steering the Franks to adopt this formation, presumably during the First Crusade when we know that Alexius offered the crusade commanders military counsel. Having said this, there is no scenario which is decisive in answering this question and the dilemmas posed by the origins of the ‘fighting march’ serve better to showcase the methodological difficulties involved when identifying cross-cultural innovation in a military context. Turning to the frequently mentioned tenth-century Byzantine military man­ uals, these represent valuable resources within the broader question of ­cross-cultural military innovation, presenting a huge assortment of details on themes as varied as the minutiae of deploying siege engines to the arrangement of waggons. As such, collectively, they lay out the seedbed of military ideas present in the Byzantine Empire in the era directly before the Crusades. These manuals do, however, create problems. The sheer variety of the tactics they discuss and the level of detail they supply on how a predominantly agricultural society should wage war against a range of enemy armies creates a temptation to attribute vast swathes of Frankish warcraft to Byzantine tutelage for the simple reason that such a broad array or tactics is captured in these texts that it is hard to find any tactic or manoeuvre that they do not discuss.115 For example, the Franks in the east learned to deploy their infantry in close formations, protecting the cavalry until the time was right to charge through pre-determined gaps in the formation; the Byzantines were describing this strategy over a century previously. To take an even more specific example, two Byzantine manuals suggest that commanders should make use of herds of cattle to supplement their armies; suggesting that these animals should be stampeded towards the enemy alongside advancing shock troops; magnifying

113 For discussion on the idea that Alexus was borrowing from the Franks see: Bennett, ‘The Crusaders’ “fighting march”’, 17; Nicolle, Crusader Wafare Volume I, 64. 114  MA, 69–77, 213. 115  See also: Bennett, ‘The Crusaders’ “fighting march”’, 10.

240  The Crusader States and their Neighbours their impact.116 This is exactly what the Franks did at the battle of Ascalon. On this basis, should we assume that Frankish tactics were guided by Byzantine advisors? There is no easy answer to this question. It could be argued that these similarities are too distinctive to have developed independently, but it could be objected that the Byzantine manuals contain so much advice that a Frankish commander would have struggled to devise any formation or tactic that was not described at some point in their pages. An alternative would be to suggest that the Franks either came up with the idea on the spur of the moment—not im­pos­ sible—or that they were guided by exemplars from Western Europe. In 1038 in the struggle between Aimon, archbishop of Bourges, and Odo, lord of Déols, infantry were mounted on ‘animals’ (animalibus) or ‘asses’ (asinis) and placed among the archbishop’s knightly contingents to give the impression of greater numbers. This example, whilst not a precise parallel, demonstrates that the notion of using such animals in war was not unprecedented. Other sources of inspiration might likewise be classical works such as Frontinus’ Stratagems, which features soldiers mounted on baggage animals masquerading as cavalry.117 Even where we can be reasonable sure that advice was given or books were consulted, this is no guarantee that it was ever implemented in practice.118 On this topic at least then, this study’s findings are negative. Proving the crosscultural transmission of military ideas is often very difficult. Admittedly, this is not always the case. There are some examples of w ­ riters specifically recommending that commanders use an opponent’s weapons/tactics. The abovementioned John of Plano Carpini recommended that Christian commanders should adopted Mongol tactics wholesale.119 Naturally we do not know if anyone actually ­implemented this advice, but at the very least we can see that the idea had been transmitted. Muslim sources also speak of the purchase or use of Frankish arms, which again indicates transmission of armaments (although this does not ­necessarily mean that Muslim purchasers lacked the technology or knowledge to  construct the arms they were acquiring). Having said this, there are also occasions when even a straightforward statement claiming that a ­cross-cultural transmission of ideas has taken place can be misleading. A rather late ex­ample of this can be found at the battle of Tagliacozzo in the summer of 1268, when Charles I of Anjou beat the Hohenstaufen forces led by Conradin. In the preparations for the battle Prince William of Morea advised Charles to use a 116  The Sylloge Tacticorum, 24. See also: The Taktika of Leo VI, 395. 117  Latin references: Andrew of Fleury, Les miracles de Saint Benoit, ed. E. de Certain (Paris, 1858), 196–7. Frontinus, Stratagems, Aqueducts of Rome, trans. C. Bennett, Loeb Classical Library CLXXIV (Cambridge, MA, 1925), 126–8. I am indebted to James Titterton for drawing my attention to these examples. A Near Eastern precedent could also be suggested in the battle fought between the Kurds and the Uqaylids in 987–8: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 124. 118  See Bennett’s article on the gap between military theory and practice: Bennett, ‘The Crusaders’ “fighting march”’, 1–18. 119  John of Plano Carpini, ‘History of the Mongols’, 46.

Innovation and Cross-cultural Exchange  241 ‘feigned flight’ strategy, noting that he had learned such techniques from the Greeks and Turks. This ploy was then used to great effect.120 Reflecting on this episode, this conversation could be used as a straightforward example of cross-cultural transmission—after all, Prince William had observed Greek/ Turkish tactics and then advised their application in an intra-Latin war. Therefore cross-cultural borrowing had taken place. Perhaps for William and Charles of Anjou this is exactly what happened. Nevertheless, as shown above, this was not the first time that Frankish commanders used such feigned flight tactics, which had been employed by many Latin commanders for centuries. Thus, while William and Charles may have reinvented it using non-Latin exemplars, it was not an innovation when viewed from the perspective of Christendom’s military repertoire. In short, just because an author says that an idea has been drawn from another culture, this cannot be taken alone as proof that it did not already exist in his/her own culture’s traditions; thus complicating still further the process of identifying the route by which ideas were exchanged interculturally. Overall, particularly on themes such as discipline, tactics, and troops formations, there can be substantial methodological problems when seeking to identify cross-cultural transmission. In the above cases—without new evidence—it is not possible to reach a precise verdict. 120  The Old French Chronicle of Morea, 117.

Conclusion Why did the Crusader States Lose the Contest for the Near East? This concluding chapter asks perhaps the most important overarching question posed by the military history of the Crusader States: why did the Crusader States ultimately fall in 1187? This discussion will gather together many of the points raised in the above chapters, but there are several further factors which deserve special attention first before moving to an overall synthesis.

Decadent ‘Pullani’? Towards the end of his chronicle, in one of his more than usually acerbic moments, William of Tyre offered a lengthy aside complaining about the fighting qualities of contemporary Franks. He observed that where in the past the Crusader States had managed to defeat large armies with only a handful of horsemen, they were now incapable of achieving victory even if the Franks possessed superior numbers. His explanation for this trend rests on three main convictions: (1) the Eastern Franks had turned their back on God and therefore lost divine support; (2) they had ceased to train rigorously with arms and had become idle; and (3) the unification of the Near East under Nur al-Din and later Saladin en­abled these enemy rulers to assemble armies large enough to existentially threaten the kingdom of Jerusalem.1 William’s criticisms at this point require closer assessment because they supply reasons why the Crusader States were losing the upper hand. His second concern in particular warrants attention because it suggests that the Crusader States were declining due to indolence and inertia. At first sight, it might seem relatively easy to dismiss William’s views. In this section of his chronicle his claims sound much like the many letters of appeal written by Outremer’s secular and ecclesiastical leaders, which nearly all present the situation in the east as dire and on the verge of collapse. It was in their interests for these letter writers to be gloomy because they were hoping to sting 1  WT, 969–71. The Crusader States and their Neighbours: A Military History, 1099–1187. Nicholas Morton, Oxford University Press (2020). © Nicholas Morton. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198824541.001.0001

conclusion  243 Christendom’s elites into sending aid (whether money or troops).2 Given that William’s entire chronicle could be read—as least in part—as a request for Western assistance, his very negative assessment of the status quo may have been deliberately amplified so as to solicit help—enabling historians thereby to caption his judgements as little more than propaganda.3 The problem with dismissing William’s verdict on such grounds is that he was not the only writer to draw the conclusion that the Eastern Franks had lost the fighting qualities of their forefathers. Describing the final collapse of the county of Edessa and the capture of Joscelin II in 1150, Michael the Syrian inserted the comment: ‘The Franks, one of whom [previously] caused a thousand men to flee, now trembled from the rustling of a tree leaf.’4 For him the county’s fall was the consequence of God’s judgement on the Franks and a fulfilment of divine prophecy. Clearly he felt that the vigour of the First Crusaders had now entirely dissipated. Ibn al-Athir made a similar observation when describing a skirmish fought on 4 July 1170 between 200 Artuqid horsemen and 300 Frankish knights (prob­ ably Tripolitan and Hospitaller). After a close fought contest the Artuqids emerged victorious and Ibn al-Athir commented that normally even 1000 Muslim horsemen could not withstand 300 knights but on this occasion they had been defeated by inferior numbers.5 By extension, many Western authors began to criticize the Eastern Franks, labelling them ‘Pullani’ and accusing them of yielding to luxury and dissipation.6 Comparing these comments to those made in William’s chronicle, there are clearly grounds to describe a cross-cultural consensus that solider-for-soldier the Franks were not the fearsome opponents they once had been. This warrants closer investigation. To begin, the idea that the Franks’ soldiery had man-for-man become weaker and less effective does not stand up to scrutiny. The Crusader States’ armies still conducted long gruelling expeditions and were still able to win victories. Reynald of Châtillon’s expedition to the Red Sea along with the many raids sent into the Nile Delta demonstrate that the Franks had not lost their ability for daring longdistance operations, while their ability to remain in formation under attack for several days and without adequate provisions (such as during the 1183 campaign under Guy’s leadership) demonstrates that they still possessed plenty of grit and

2  For discussion on these letters, their authorship, and their presentation of their enemies see: Phillips, Defenders, passim; J. Riley-Smith, ‘The military orders and the east: 1149–1291’, Knighthoods of Christ: Essays on the History of the Crusades and the Knights Templar, ed. N. Housley (Abingdon, 2007), 137–49. 3  Barber similarly points out that not everyone in the Crusader States was as ‘gloomy’ as William about the future (Crusader States, 293). For discussion on William’s aims and objectives in writing his history see: P. Edbury and J. Rowe, William of Tyre: Historian of the Latin East, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought (Cambridge, 1988), 170–1. 4  Translation: MS, 684.    5  IAA(C), vol. 2, 185. 6  For example: Jacques de Vitry: Histoire orientale, Historia orientalis, ed. J. Donnadieu (Turnhout, 2008), 274–94.

244  The Crusader States and their Neighbours staying power. The fact that the Frankish army showed such tenacity at Hattin during the two-day battle, despite the heat and dehydration implies that its troops were still exceptionally resilient even in the most adverse of circumstances.7 Moreover, the rapid rise of the military orders in the latter half of the twelfth century—whose soldiers were to become the benchmark of military excellence both for Frankish and Islamic observers—again tells against any conclusion of this kind.8 Having said this, these authors are not wrong that during the First Crusade and the early settlement of the Crusader States there are many instances when tiny bands of knights defeated substantially more power opposing forces. Nor can reports of these early victories—won against the odds—be dismissed as elab­ora­ tions concocted by later Latin authors because Islamic and Eastern Christian sources are in full agreement on this point. Indeed, the ability of early Frankish armies to score outlandish successes was so well known in Islamic circles that it became a source of theological controversy. The author of the Sea of Precious Virtues, a mid twelfth-century book of instruction for a young Turkish nobleman, reports a conversation held in the caliphal palace in Baghdad during which a great scholar asked ‘What wisdom is there in this, that in the early days of Islam two Muslims would stand fast against a hundred infidels, while today a hundred Muslims cannot stand fast against two Franks?’9 By contrast, in the second half of the twelfth century, the instances where the Franks won such astonishing vic­tor­ ies became substantially less frequent. Montgisard was a battle won by a small force over a multitude and so potentially was the Frankish victory over Nur alDin in 1163 (fought near Krak des Chevaliers), but these are isolated cases set against a much broader military panorama where the Franks were increasingly feeling it necessary to confront their foes with armies of very nearly the same size. Perhaps the best solution to the problem posed by these authors is not that the Frankish soldiers were becoming less effective, but that their foes were becoming better adapted to unlocking their weaknesses whilst addressing their own deficiencies. As shown above, Turkish commanders slowly began to devise stratagems for defeating Frankish heavy cavalry; or at least to degrade their tactical advantages. It also seems likely that by the 1180s the Franks could not send their cavalry storming through there enemies’ camps in the way that they had done in 7 Tyerman, The World of the Crusades, 189. 8  For discussion on Islamic attitudes towards the military orders see: Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword, 176–7; O. Latiff, ‘Qur’anic imagery, Jesus and the creation of a pious-warrior ethos in the Muslim poetry of the anti-Frankish jihad’, Cultural Encounters During the Crusades, ed. K.  Jensen, K. Salonen and H. Vogt (Odense, 2013), 135–51; Forey, Military Orders, 83–4; K. Lewis, ‘Friend or foe: Islamic views of the military orders in the Latin East as drawn from Arabic sources’, The Military Orders: Volume 6.1, Culture and Conflict in the Mediterranean World, ed. J.  Schenk and M.  Carr (Abingdon, 2017), 20–9. 9  Translation from: The Sea of Precious Virtues (Bahr al-Favā’id): a Medieval Mirror for Princes, trans. J. S. Meisami (Salt Lake City, 1991), 57.

conclusion  245 1115 or 1163 because their opponents were becoming more adept at fortifying their encampments (such as during the 1183 campaign). Moreover, the Turks’ drive to equip their own forces with larger contingents of heavy cavalry, capable of matching their Frankish rivals, would have substantially narrowed the tactical advantage conferred by the Franks’ cavalry shock troops. Other factors might be advanced to explain their rising combat effectiveness including the impact of jihad propaganda and its commensurate effect on soldiers’ determination and commitment.

Problems with Offensive Operations in Syria Intertwined with the above concerns, however, were broader strategic problems, especially (as James of Vitry later observed) the fact that the Franks proved so continually inept when seeking to drive their conquests inland into Syria from the coastal region.10 Naturally, the Syrian region was only one of the frontier zones surrounding the Crusader States, the others being: Egypt (Sinai), Transjordan, the Arabian Peninsula, Anatolia, and Cilicia, but it was also the homeland for many of their staunchest opponents for much of this period. The Syrian cities of Aleppo and Damascus, as well as Hama, Homs, and Shaizar, represented longstanding targets for the Franks, all of which they tried and failed to conquer. Focusing on the Franks’ Syrian wars, their inability to push inland represents a vital element in any assessment of their ultimate failure. The following is a very short list of the fortifications conquered militarily (rather than by treaty) by the Franks from the Turks in Syria between the accession of Baldwin III and the battle of Hattin (1143–87). 1153—Reynald of Châtillon (then prince of Antioch) is said to have captured three fortresses, possibly including Harim.11 1157—A large allied Frankish-Armenian force conquered Harim.12 1157—Queen Melisende secured the conquest of a cave fortress in Transjordan.13 1169—The Franks captured Gibelacar (Akkar).14 1182—The kingdom of Jerusalem’s forces captured al-Habis Jaldak.15 Given that during this period of forty-four years of sustained military effort, the Franks staged a total of thirty-six incursions along the Syrian frontier, their relentless inability to conquer major strongholds is remarkable.16 The only large 10  Jacques de Vitry, Historia orientalis, 216. Tyerman, The World of the Crusades, 160–1. 11  Robert of Torigni, ‘Chronica’, 180; Buck, Principality of Antioch, 42. 12 WT, 839.   13 WT, 838.   14 IS, 45.   15  WT, 1040. 16  For further discussion see: Raphael, Muslim Fortresses, 8–13.

246  The Crusader States and their Neighbours fortress on this list is Harim (1157) and its conquest was only possible because Nur al-Din was seriously ill at the time and could not despatch a relief force.17 Moreover, the Franks did make several attempts to conquer major towns or strongholds including their expeditions to Damascus in 1148, Shaizar in 1157/1177/1179, and Harim in 1177. The common factor linking these campaigns is that they all failed. Admittedly they made gains elsewhere (in Egypt and Cilicia), but even on these frontiers their conquests were only temporary. The Turks by contrast were far more effective at besieging Frankish towns and castles during this same period taking twenty-three strongholds from the Crusader States in addition to the entire county of Edessa. These successes include several formidable strongholds including: Apamea (1149), Harim (1149/1164), Marash (1149), Tortosa (1152), and Banyas (1164). Why then did the Turks prove so much more effective in their efforts to break through their enemy’s defences in the Syrian theatre? To answer this it is relevant to consider the various tools available to Frankish and Turkish commanders when tackling enemy strongholds and the risks involved for both when conducting siege operations. As shown above, the Turks’ reliance on light cavalry meant that they could risk far more daring incursions into Frankish territory, safe in the knowledge that if they failed or were defeated then they could depend on their fleet-footed mounts to get them out of trouble. Frankish forces, mostly on foot, had no such luxury and consequently had to be a lot more careful. This goes some way to explaining why between 1099 and 1187 the Franks hardly ever maintained a siege upon an inland enemy stronghold once news had arrived of inbound relief forces—instead they almost always raised the siege and departed.18 Of course this was in stark contrast to the First Crusade where the Franks weathered three relief armies during the siege of Antioch, but on this occasion they had no choice, having no place of retreat. The above chapters have raised several further factors curbing the Franks’ offensive capabilities against their Turkish foes. The Turkish light cavalry’s ability to harass advancing Frankish armies could make it impossible for them to engage meaningfully in siege operations, which necessarily required armies to spread out to surround and blockade an opposing town or castles (see Chapter 4). As shown above, there also seems to have been a tendency for Muslim urban populations to resist Frankish attacks with the utmost resolution. Given that many of the region’s cities had populations numbering in the tens of thousands, their resistance presented a formidable—ultimately insurmountable—obstacle to the Franks whose assaulting armies were generally far smaller than the communities they hoped to conquer.

17  IQ, 344. 18  The Franks seem to have been rather more confident in their coastal operations.

conclusion  247 At a more technical level, the Franks depended heavily on siege towers as their weapon of choice in siege operations (rather like their Latin contemporaries in other parts of Western Christendom).19 This was the weapon they employed extensively during the conquest of the coastal cities (1099–1124). It was not an innovation and had been used in Western Christendom since the ninth century at least (and previously of course by Classical civilizations).20 Catapults could assist siege towers in siege assaults—breaking down crenulations and acting as antipersonnel weapons—but they could not generally destroy masonry walls or create breaches suitable for assault.21 The Franks’ preference for siege towers continued throughout the period and at the siege of Damietta in 1168 Nicetas Choniates reports King Amalric rebuking the Byzantine commander Andronicus for his suggestion that ladders alone would be sufficient to effect the city’s capture, lecturing him instead on the virtues of siege towers.22 The Eastern Franks were apparently very proficient at their construction and at the siege of Crema in Italy (1159–60) Frederick Barbarossa hired a siege engineer from Jerusalem to build him a siege tower. Apparently this expert claimed to have helped to conquer many ‘Saracen’ strongholds in recent years—a highly dubious claim considering how rarely the Eastern Franks had conquered anything during the past two decades— but nonetheless his tower proved sufficiently robust to help conquer the city.23 Relying on siege towers, however, posed problems. Siege towers required a great deal of time to build (Rogers suggests four to six weeks) and a considerable amount of timber.24 This was generally more than long enough for relief forces to assemble and march against a beleaguered stronghold. The main structural corner posts needed to be very long, broad, and thick, so as to support the whole structure. Large baulks of timber, however, were not a plentiful commodity in the Near East. Such beams could be sourced in the wooded Amanus Mountains in the north and there were some forests on the coast, including the pine forest near Beirut, and of course the cedars of the Lebanese Mountains. Nicetas Choniates also informs us that there were palm trees near to Damietta suitable for this purpose during the 1168 siege.25 Given this geographical distribution of woodland, it was possible to acquire sufficient timber for sieges against coastal defences, and additional beams could be supplied by breaking up ships. Nevertheless, sieges conducted further inland were a different matter.26 The rainfall was—and is—typically far lower and the trees are smaller and less usable for the construction of siege towers. Notably, the Franks only employed siege

19 Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 63. 20 Theotokis, Norman Campaigns, 207; France, ‘Technology and the success of the First Crusade’, 175. 21 Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades, passim.   22  NC, 93. 23  Latin text: Vincent of Prague, ‘Annales’, MGH S, ed. G.  Pertz, vol. 17 (Hanover, 1861), 677. Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 138. 24 Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 109; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 160.   25  NC, 93. 26 Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 72, 89; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 167.   

248  The Crusader States and their Neighbours t­ owers against three non-coastal targets during the period 1097–1187: at Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man in 1098, at Jerusalem in 1099, and against Banyas in 1140, and on two out of these three occasions they struggled to locate sufficient timber. In 1099 the Crusaders besieging Jerusalem experienced the unexpected windfall of finding a stash of timber left previously by the Fatimids during their earlier siege of Jerusalem.27 In 1140, the Frankish–Damascene force besieging Banyas was un­able to find suitable timber with which to build a siege tower, even though Banyas lies in a wooded region, and so the main structural beams had to be transported all the way from Damascus.28 These experiences and the infrequency with which the Franks used siege towers in their inland ventures speaks of their difficulties applying their siege weapon of choice in these contexts, thus representing another factor curbing their ambitions on this quarter. The Turks by contrast relied on a very different set of tactics to conquer ­fortifications.29 There are some infrequent examples of Turkish commanders employing siege towers in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Examples include Sultan Alp Arslan’s siege of Ani in 1064 (seemingly with the support of Armenian en­gin­eers) and Sultan Mohammed’s siege of Mosul (1105)—so they were familiar with the technology—but they hardly ever used these weapons against the Franks.30 The Turks by contrast relied heavily upon undermining to conquer strongolds; this involved engineers directing a workforce to dig underneath an opponent’s rampart, propping up the walls with timbers until a suitable moment when the timbers would be burned causing the wall above to collapse. These mining op­er­ ations were generally supplemented with a substantial missile assault as massed ranks of archers poured arrows against Frankish defenders supported by catapults; the idea being that this barrage would prevent the defenders from obstructing the miners working at the wall’s foot.31 The Turks’ reliance on miners—supported by an archer/artillery barrage—may also explain some of the adaptations discernible in Frankish castle building. These include the construction of posterns (for sorties), or a glacis at a rampart’s foot (to widen the wall’s base and make it difficult to  undermine), along with the construction of multiple lines of fortifications (to maximize the defenders’ missile barrage).32 Viewed in comparison to the use 27  AA, 406. 28  WT, 687. For a description of the Banyas region see: Jacques de Vitry, Historia orientalis, 192. 29 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 192, 225; Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades, 411. 30  Ani (1064): IAA(AST), 155; Prouteau, ‘Beneath the battle’, 106; Mosul (1105): IAA(C), vol. 1, 86. For discussion see: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume II, 237. Ellenblum suggests that siege towers were used at the siege of Kerak in 1184, but this remarkable if true deployment is not reported in the vast majority of sources for this event (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 280). 31  See, for example: Libellus de expugnatione Terrae Sanctae per Saladinum, 202. 32 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 239–57; Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades, 355. Although note that while Ellenblum stresses that the threat from both Islamic artillery and mining brought about these—and other—changes in Frankish castle design, Fulton has demonstrated that con­tem­por­ ary artillery was considerably less effective against masonry defences than has previously been im­agined. He does however stress the importance of undermining.

conclusion  249 of siege towers, undermining had several advantages. Firstly, it did not rely on the use of massive timbers which were difficult to source away from the coast. Secondly, mining was less susceptible to Greek fire, which was used repeatedly to destroy Frankish siege towers. Thirdly, and most im­port­ant­ly, siege towers took a long time to construct whereas mining operations could be very quick.33 To take a few examples, when the Damascenes attacked Banyas in 1132, their miners brought down the town wall in a single day.34 In 1179, Jacob’s Ford’s ramparts were undermined on the sixth day and in 1187 Saladin’s miners broke through Tiberias’ town wall in a single night.35 Given that both the Turks and Franks were nervous—albeit to differing degrees—about fighting off relief forces whilst in enemy territory then the speed with which they could get inside the walls could be decisive.36 Mining was not without its problems. Some castles, located on inaccessible peaks or ridges, were unsuitable for mining operations. Miners were sometimes prepared to attempt undermining castles built onto bedrock, but this was substantially more difficult.37 It also seems likely that a swift siege conducted via mining could only be achieved at a high price—a substantial casualty rate among the miners, supporting archers, and assault troops.38 The risk of incurring significant casualties may go some way to explaining why the Franks rarely adopted their enemies’ swifter approach to siege warfare (mining and missile barrage then frontal assault), preferencing instead the slower processes of blockade and siege towers.39 The Franks could not afford anything like the same casualty rate as their opponents given their slender population and their high-cost mercenary troops. Even so, the Franks did use miners occasionally. One of the least documented, but most notable conquests made by the Franks during the twelfth century was their capture of Azaz in 1118. Azaz had several rows of ramparts which back in 1068 had been sufficient to deter a major Byzantine army led by Emperor Romanus IV Diogenes.40 Nevertheless, the Franks took the town using miners in

33 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 217–19. See also: P. Purton, A History of the Early Medieval Siege: c.450–1200 (Woodbridge, 2009), 248. Nicolle notes that siege towers were ‘not necessarily very successful’: Nicolle, Crusader Warfare Volume I, 118. 34  IQ, 216–17. 35 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 273; IAA(C), vol. 2, 320. Fulton suggests that the average Muslim siege (1147–86) lasted for about three weeks: Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades, 326. 36 Raphael, Muslim Fortresses, 9. 37  For an excellent—if later—case study for undermining a castle built on bedrock see: A. Boas, ‘Archaeological evidence for the Mamluk sieges and dismantling of Montfort: a preliminary discussion’, Montfort: History, Early Research and Recent Studies of the Principal Fortress of the Teutonic Order in the Latin East, ed. A. Boas and R. Khamisy, The Medieval Mediterranean CVII (Leiden, 2017), 53 and passim. 38 Fulton, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades, 329. 39  See: Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 102. 40  Michael Attaleiates, The History, 213. For a detailed description of Azaz’s layout and fortifications in the late twelfth century see: M. Piana, ‘The castle and town walls in Syria in the time of Nūr al-Din: the evidence from manuscript BnF arabe 2281 (564/1168–1169)’, Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras IX, ed. K. D’hulster, G. Schallenbergh, and J. Van Steenbergen (Peeters, 2019), 165–7.

250  The Crusader States and their Neighbours only thirty days; very fast in comparison to their much longer sieges on the coast.41 References to the Franks’ use of mining on other occasions appear spor­ad­ic­al­ly between the First Crusade and 1187. Examples include: the siege of Nicaea (1097), Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man (1098), Arqa (1099), possibly Haifa (1100), Azaz (1118), an unnamed Damascene tower (1126),42 Tell ‘Arran (1130), Harim (1157), possibly again at Harim (1177), al-Habis Jaldak (1182).43 Reviewing these cases, it is notable that many of the post-First Crusade mining attempts were conducted in the north, generally with Armenian allies. This may imply that the Franks made use of Armenian expertise when it was available, but it remains less clear why they did not develop their own capabilities in this area, particularly given that Muslim sappers were also available for hire and were employed by the Norman rulers of Sicily and Southern Italy and later—either by payment or coercion—by Richard I during the Third Crusade.44 Notably in 1197 when Emperor Henry VI’s army besieged the fortress of Toron using silver miners from Saxony, Arnold of Lübeck considered this to be a very novel strategy for conquering a castle.45 Overall it seems that the Franks were substantially less effective than the Turks when besieging towns and strongholds in inland Syria. Their reliance on siege towers committed them to long and resource-intensive sieges which simply were not practical given that they were not prepared to withstand relief forces, while the topography of inland Syria prohibited the creation of siege towers from local timber. The Turks by contrast were not nearly so resource dependent and utilized tactics that could penetrate heavy defences in only a few days (before the arrival of relief forces). This was not because they possessed a technical edge that the Franks lacked (the Franks used mining as well); rather the most likely ex­plan­ation seems to be that they were more prepared to absorb heavy casualties. These differing approaches go some way to explaining both the continued inability of Frankish forces to penetrate far inland and, by contrast, the Turks’ substantial success in seizing Frankish fortresses quickly. From the Frankish perspective, this incapacity coupled with the fact that they never surmounted the problem goes some way to explaining why—in the long run—they were unable to take the two main regional lynchpins: Aleppo and Damascus.

41  ASC1, 85; ME, 222–3.    42  FC, 793. 43  Nicaea (1097): AA, 124; Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man (1098): RA, 97; Arqa (1099): IAA(C), vol. 1, 18; Haifa (1100): AA, 520; Azaz (1118): ASC1, 85; Damascene fortress (1126): FC, 793; Tell ‘arran (1130): ASC1, 99; Harim (1157): WT, 839; Harim (1177): Roger of Howden, Chronica, vol. 2, 132; al-Habis Jaldak (1182): WT, 1040. Please note that in many cases these attempts at undermining did not involve digging tunnels under a fortress’ foundations but involved miners working at ground level under a protective armoured roof (Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 216). 44 Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare, 114; Prouteau, ‘Beneath the battle’, 108–11. 45  Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 207.

conclusion  251

Speed Another theme alluded to in many of the above chapters is that of ‘speed’. In so many contexts the Turks proved ‘faster’ than their Frankish foes. Their miners were able to create a practicable breach in an opponent’s walls often in only a few days, unlike the Franks whose siege towers took weeks to construct. Their reliance on light cavalry meant that they were more effective raiders and, in battle, they could flee faster if defeated and pursue more aggressively if victorious. They were also more tactically flexible on the battlefield. Naturally, their nomadic background was a great boon in this regard given that their forces were often entirely composed of mounted troops. Over time, the Turks improved their responsiveness in other ways, most not­ably by using carrier pigeons. These avian messengers had been employed by Turkish and Arab rulers throughout this period but during Nur al-Din’s reign frontier troops were routinely supplied with carrier pigeons who could use them to send for aid. Help could then be despatched on the same day, enabling these reinforcements to catch the Franks before they could withdraw.46 Signal fires and runners were also used on occasion. The result was that the Turks became very effective at intercepting Frankish raiding parties and in 1179, when Baldwin IV staged an attack on Banyas, he was ambushed almost immediately by Damascene troops despite the fact that he had begun his incursion with a night march.47 I have identified seventeen— possibly eighteen—examples of Frankish raiding parties being intercepted in open country and all but two of these interceptions ended with a Turkish victory.48 By contrast, there are only a handful of reports depicting Frankish troops/leaders using carrier pigeons and little to suggest that they were systematically employed for frontier defence/communication.49 Moreover, only six examples have been identified from the sources of Franks intercepting Turkish raiders and notably all of these are early (1151 being the latest instance).50 The implication then is that the Turks were better able to respond quickly to Frankish raiding incursions. 46  IAA(C), vol. 2, 201. For discussion see: S. Edgington, ‘The doves of war: the part played by carrier pigeons in the crusades’, Autour de la première croisade, ed. M.  Balard, Publications de la Sorbonne:Série Byzantina Sorbonensia XIV: (Paris, 1996), 167–75. 47  On this occasion we know that the Damascene commander Farrukh Shah was ordered to send messages to Saladin via carrier pigeon if reinforcements were needed, but it is not stated how news of the original Frankish advance was relayed back to Damascus. IAA(C), vol. 2, 262; WT, 999. 48  1116–17 (IQ, 154); 1118 (IAA(C), vol. 1, 196); 1121 (KAD, 627); 1122 (KAD, 634); 1124 (KAD, 643); 1129 (IQ, 197); 1134 (KAD, 665); 1143 (al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 152); 1144(1) (IQ, 265); 1144(2) (al-Azimi, ‘chronique’, 154); 1146 (Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 4, 49); 1151 (IQ, 311); 1157 (Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol. 4, 91); 1160 (WT, 851–2); 1176 (WT, 976); 1178 (IAA(C)), vol. 2, 260; and in 1179 (IAA(C), vol. 2, 262). The ‘possible’ example can be found in IAA(C), vol. 1, 233. Please note that these interceptions do not include occasions when the Frankish army was engaged in a siege or occasions and was clearly seeking a confrontation. 49  ASC1, 97. 50 1122 (KAD, 633); 1132 (KAD, 664–5); 1133 (MS, 649); 1139: (KAD, 680); 1142 (al-Azimi, ‘­chronique’, 149); 1151 (Abu Shama, ‘Le Livre des deux jardins’, vol 4, 75).

252  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The importance of speed within a military-political context is in many ways self-evident (it is nearly always an advantage to be able to both attack and retreat faster than an opponent), but in this specific political arena it was especially valuable because it helped to compensate for one of the Turks’ greatest weaknesses. As shown above, the Turks’ inheritance customs essentially meant that, on the death of a ruler, there was a bitter struggle between his male family members and retainers over all his former assets (territorial, financial, military, etc.). This meant that it was very difficult to maintain a united front against enemies such as the Franks, Byzantines, and Fatimids, who could reasonably expect their Turkish neighbours to descend into a civil war of indeterminate duration on a semi-regular basis. Moreover, as shown in many of the above chapters, even when the new ruler had established himself there were generally grievances, opposing factions, or rebels loyal to previous/other regimes who could cause trouble throughout a ruler’s time in power. Viewed from the Frankish perspective, the fissiparous nature of Turkish rule should have been a major boon, not least because there were many occasions when Turkish factions called upon the Franks for aid against their Turkish rivals. During some of these episodes, Turkish leaders (or factions/rulers operating under Turkish rule) offered to handover major towns or strongholds in exchange for the Franks’ support. Table 7.1 details occasions when Turkish rebels, who had become alienated from their rulers, sought Frankish support (1099–1187). Naturally each of these incidents exists within its unique political and geographical context. There are also grounds to suspect that some of the supposed appeals made by rebels for Frankish help are in fact fabricated accusations of collusion devised in hindsight to condemn the ‘rebel’ faction and justify the victor’s actions. Even so, there is also a common pattern here. In so many of these incidents the Turks acted first, moving quickly and decisively, defeating the rebels long before Frankish reinforcements arrived (if indeed the Franks bothered to send reinforcements). Indeed, when the Franks did arrive (such as in 1124 or 1147), they found the Turks well entrenched outside the walls, or fully in possession of the contested strongpoint. Viewed from the Frankish perspective, taking advantage of their opponents’ internal squabbles would always have been a difficult business and at times they called off their relief efforts because they simply did not trust leaders they were marching to help. This hesitancy can be seen in a slightly different kind of venture when in 1174 the Zangid leaders in Homs, under attack from Saladin, called upon Raymond III of Tripoli for aid, but although he set out to assist them, he felt that he could not trust their offer and so he retired.51 Despite these obstacles it is notable that the Franks never managed to make use of these many moments of Turkish weakness.

51  WT, 972–3.

conclusion  253 Table 7.1  Rebellions against Turkish rule involving appeals for assistance made to the Crusader States52 Year

Faction/ individual

Offer

1104

Muhyi al-Din and Aytakin al-Halabi lord of Bosra.

Muhyi al-Din offered The Franks joined to stage a combined forces with these operation to seize leaders briefly, Damascus from but then retired. Tughtakin. Khutlugh offered to Ridwan arrived first yield Azaz to and Khutlugh Tancred of Antioch surrendered to in exchange for him. other territory. Gumushtagin sought Tughtakin arrived and suppressed an alliance against the rebellion. It is Tughtakin, not clear if the encouraging the Franks ever Franks to attack marched out to Damascus. support him.53 Yca offered to hand Balak arrived first over Manbij to and besieged the Joscelin of Edessa city. Joscelin in return for his arrived afterwards help. but failed to drive Balak away. The Nizaris’ offered to The rebellion was handover Damascus put down before to the Franks in the Franks could exchange for Tyre. arrive. He apparently wanted The Damascenes suppressed the to rule Damascus rebellion before and sought aid the Franks could from the Franks. arrive. William of Tyre says that he offered the Franks Bosra and Sarkhad. He had apparently Nur al-Din attacked been seeking aid the city soon after from the Franks. news reached Damascus and Mujir al-Din of Damascus subjugated the city the following year.

1107–8 Khutlugh, Ridwan of Aleppo’s governor in Azaz. 1110 Gumushtagin al-Taji, Tughtakin’s governor in Baalbek. 1124

Yca, son of the governor of Manbij and effective ruler.

1128–9 The Nizaris in rebellion in Damascus. 1147

Altuntash, governor of Bosra.

1151

Sirkhal, governor of Bosra.

Outcome

Ref IAA(C), vol. 1, 81; IQ, 65; AA, 706 KaD, 595

KaD, 636; 641

IAA(C), vol. 1, 278 IQ, 277–8; WT, 723–4

IQ, 310–13

Continued 52  Please note: this table does not include appeals made to the Franks by independent Turkish ­rulers seeking aid against a Turkish rival. 53  IQ, 96; Sibt al-Jawzi, ‘Mirât ez-Zémân’, RHC Or., vol. 3 (Paris, 1884), 538.

254  The Crusader States and their Neighbours Table 7.1  Continued Year

Faction/ individual

Offer

Outcome

Ref

MS, 700–715; The Franks This governor of IAA(C), apparently broke Harim became vol. 2, their agreement estranged from the 273–4 with Gumushtigin Zangids in Aleppo and attacked and offered to hand Harim directly. himself over to the Franks. Although notably Ibn al-Athir reports this incident very differently and doesn’t involve the Franks at all. IAA(C), vol. 1178–9 Shams al-Din, Shams al-Din rebelled Saladin arrived in 1,261; MS, Jan 1179 and governor of against Saladin 717; Lyons besieged Baalbek, Baalbek when Saladin tried and forcing it to to transfer Jackson, submit in the early ownership of the Saladin, spring. No town to Turan 132–3 Frankish forces Shah. According to arrived. Michael the Syrian and Arabic sources, he then sought aid from the Franks. His own troops IAA(C), vol. 2, 1183 Sarkhak, governor When Saladin rebelled and 295; BH, of Harim. became ruler of handed over vol. 1, 316 Aleppo Sarkhak Sarkhak to sought Frankish Saladin. protection. Bar Hebraeus says he offered to sell the castle to the Franks. 1177

Gumushtagin, governor of Harim.

The only time in the Syrian theatre when they succeeded in taking advantage of their enemies’ infighting in order to seize a town/stronghold was in 1106 when the Antiochenes managed to secure Apamea from an Arab dynasty. Previously, the Nizaris (seemingly operating on the instructions of Ridwan of Aleppo) had taken control, provoking the Arab ruler’s sons to seek aid from Tancred (who duly arrived and conquered the town).54 This is admittedly a rather different situation because here we are dealing with an independent Arab town under threat from the Aleppan Turks in co-operation with the Nizaris (rather than Turkish

54  IAA(C), vol. 2, 103.

conclusion  255 infighting), but it is also the only occasion when the Franks successfully made use of a non-Christian appeal for help to gain territory. In short, the above evidence reflects a weakness in the Franks’ ability to respond to opportunities; it also bears upon the theme of speed. Again, it was the Turks who nearly always acted/moved/responded/retaliated before the Franks. This suggests by extension that the Turks could muster their troops at a faster rate and reach a target more quickly; a major advantage that prevented the Franks from seizing upon their weaknesses.

Integrating Crusaders The Crusader States’ dependence on support from Western Christendom is well known. It was from there that the merchants, pilgrims, Crusaders, adventurers, mercenaries, settlers, envoys, and large crusading armies set out for the east. These arrivals then provided in part the manpower, resources, and tax income required to sustain the colossal project that was the Crusader States. The rulers of the Latin East were fully cognizant of their dependency and worked hard to elicit greater support from the West, while the military orders’ enormous networks of estates disgorged resources on an industrial scale via responsiones to fuel their labours in the east.55 Following the arrival of visitors from the West, the Eastern Franks went to considerable lengths to welcome and support them during their stay. When Henry of Saxony arrived in 1172 he is said to have received a rapturous reception with the military orders, clergy, and broader population turning out to greet his ships when they landed at Acre.56 Other actions could include: offering land on beneficial terms to settlers;57 enticing visiting lords to stay by granting them estates accompanied by wide-ranging rights and privileges;58 and implementing legal protections for pilgrims who had been mistreated (these were brought in by Baldwin IV).59 The military orders likewise provided military escorts, medical facilities, and accommodation.60 In Western Christendom their commanderies and hospices lined the routes to the major ports and they supported milites ad terminum (knights wishing to serve in the Latin East for a specific period of  ime before returning home).61 The pilgrim market also attracted t­raders, 55  For a survey of this process see: N. Morton, The Medieval Military Orders, 1120–1314 (Harlow, 2013), 21–4, 113–27. 56  Arnold of Lübeck, ‘chronica’, 121.    57  Marino Sanudo, The Book of Secrets, 448. 58  For discussion see: Riley-Smith, Feudal Nobility, 26. 59  Philip of Novara, Le Livre de Forme de Plait, 279 (see also 282). 60  See for example: J. Riley-Smith, ‘The death and burial of Latin Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem and Acre, 1099–1291’, Crusades, 7 (2008), 165–79. 61  A. Forey, ‘Milites ad terminum in the Military Orders during the Twelfth and Thirteenth cen­tur­ies’, The Military Orders Volume 4: On Land and by Sea, ed. J. Upton-Ward (Ashgate, 2008), 5–11.

256  The Crusader States and their Neighbours whose shops, hostels, and stalls could be found on the roads to Jerusalem and in the holy city itself.62 The Crusader States clearly recognized their reliance on Western arrivals and worked hard to amplify the traffic heading east, but these ‘supporters’ brought their problems too. Many incoming visitors offered themselves for military service. Their contributions could range in size from individual warriors or small companies led by a minor lord, to a major crusading army. Doubtlessly the troops and cash provided by such arrivals were always welcome, but time and again the combined op­er­ ations initiated by Eastern Frankish forces working with in co-operation with newly arrived crusading parties failed due to disagreements and quarrelling. Making such co-operative ventures work was certainly a task requiring a great deal of delicate handling. In practice, if a combined Crusader/Eastern Frankish operation was to operate efficiently then it required the newly arrived warriors to accept each of the following four preconditions: they had to (1) be ready to offer military service and ideally to accept the leadership of the Eastern Franks; (2) accept the military objectives set by the Eastern Franks; (3) accept the tutelage of the Eastern Franks concerning the challenges posed by campaigning in the east against the Turks; (4) be willing for the Eastern Franks to retain possession of any strongpoint or towns captured during the ensuing campaigning. Reviewing the history of such collaborative ventures, these conditions were rarely met—often leading to the collapse of a military venture. Several incoming Crusaders refused to accept the preferred goals of the Eastern Franks, demanding instead to pursue their own targets. Philip of Flanders is a case in point and when he arrived in 1177 William of Tyre reports that his equivocation concerning the launch of a campaign against Egypt prevented the venture from taking place, even though there was a Byzantine fleet waiting in the port of Acre to join the expedition.63 Philip’s campaign also highlights how the rulers of the different Crusader States attempted to steer incoming Crusaders to support their own interests (rather than their neighbours’). In this case, Bohemond III of Antioch and Raymond III of Tripoli were keen that Philip should fight in the north, whereas Jerusalem wanted him to fight in Egypt.64 This only added to the problems surrounding his arrival. Other Crusaders wanted greater control over the conduct of the campaign; Conrad’s actions during the siege in Damascus represent a clear example of this (see above, section ‘The Siege of Damascus: 1148’). Regarding the fourth point,

62  E. Yehuda, ‘Frankish Street settlements and the status of their inhabitants in the society of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem’, unpublished paper. 63  WT, 979–84; Phillips, Defenders, 232–3. 64  WT, 985. It is unclear how much credence should be given to William’s account, but certainly there do seem to have been arguments within the kingdom on the issue of where Philip should stage his campaign, see: Buck, The Principality of Antioch, 237–8; ‘Continuatio Aquicinctina’, MGH S, ed. G. Pertz, vol. 6 (Hanover, 1844), 416; William of Newburgh, ‘Historia Rerum Anglicarum’, 242.

conclusion  257 some Crusade commanders expressed a desire to retain personal control over a conquered town/city, inevitably causing quarrels among the leadership. Examples include Count Thierry of Flanders’ apparent desire to rule Damascus should it be conquered in 1148 and his later determination in 1157 to hold Shaizar after its future conquest (angering Reynald of Châtillon, prince of Antioch, who was worried by the fact that Thierry was only prepared to swear allegiance -as governor of Shaizar- to Jerusalem and not to Antioch, despite the fact that Antioch had long considered Shaizar to be part of its sphere of influence).65 Disagreements on these and other issues proved common between Eastern Franks and Crusaders, frequently preventing them from utilizing the full potential of such incoming contingents. There were a few success stories. King Sigurd of Norway co-operated effectively with the kingdom of Jerusalem in 1110 to conquer Sidon, accepting Baldwin I’s leadership, choice of target, and continued governance over the captured city.66 The Italian cities—whilst a slightly different case—helped to secure many of the coastal cities, providing manpower for their conquest and then building them into their own commercial networks. Other pilgrim fleets arrived propitiously at moments of crisis or disaster, providing a much needed injection of manpower. This can be seen with the arrival of a pilgrim fleet in 1102 directly after Baldwin I’s defeat at Ramla.67 Nevertheless, so many campaigns ended in acrimony, blunting their efficacy, wasting the campaign, and resulting in unhappy Crusaders going home brimming over with rage and spreading negative reports about the perfidy of the Eastern Franks. This problem with integrating incoming Crusaders probably only rates as a secondary cause in any explanation of the Crusader States’ military failures during this period but the scale of the challenge posed by integrating new arrivals warrants attention. Ultimately, Eastern Franks (sometimes speaking a different language or at least a different dialect)68 needed to integrate Crusaders from a range of different regions (possessing different currencies, cultural expectations, and martial codes) and persuade them to set aside whatever preconceptions they had gathered about Outremer (probably shaped by chansons and other such epic tales) and instead engage meaningfully with the political reality of the Near East, all the while remaining on good terms; a substantial task. Not surprisingly this co-operation rarely worked well, despite the Eastern Franks’ best efforts, and the resulting disagreements often contributed to military failures. 65  1148: WT, 768; 1157: WT, 837. During the siege of Damascus a later source claims that Guy of Beirut had been granted Damascus during the siege: Lignages d’Outremer, ed. M.-A.  Nielen, Documents relatifs à l’histoire des Croisades XVIII (Paris, 2003), 73. Hamilton discusses the possibility that Thierry’s son Philip of Flanders also had acquisitive ambitions towards Egypt in 1177: Hamilton, Leper King, 123. 66 AA, 798–808.   67  IQ, 56. 68 There has recently been some productive work conducted on the French dialect spoken in Outremer, for discussion see: L.  Minervini, ‘What we know and don’t yet know about Outremer French’, The French of Outremer: Communities and Communications in the Crusading Mediterranean, ed. L. K. Morreale and N. L. Paul (New York, 2018), 15–29.

258  The Crusader States and their Neighbours

Synthesis So why then did the Crusaders States fail? And perhaps of equal importance—when did the tides of war turn against them? To take the latter question first, several historians have advanced dates or events which they believe to represent key turning points in the fortunes of war. For some, the Crusader States were always a futile venture—doomed to failure from the start; the Franks were too few and too far from home; their enemy was too numerous.69 In a recent article Steven Biddlecombe, Natasha Hodgson, and myself debated the merits of 1148 (the failure of the siege of Damascus)70 and 1174 (Saladin’s conquest of Damascus) as possible key moments as well as discussing whether there had been any real decline ­pre-1187 (Hattin).71 Tibble seems to feel that the balance of power had shifted in favour of the Zangids by/during the early years of Nur al-Din’s reign.72 Regarding the county of Tripoli, Lewis characterized the county as being in military decline from the last years of Count Pons (count 1112–37).73 Contemporaries likewise offered their own views. For example, James of Vitry felt that the battle of Harim and the fall of Banyas marked the beginning of the end.74 In other publications I have underlined the importance of the battle of the Field of Blood (1119) and the siege of Aleppo (1124–5) and the role played by  these Frankish failures in blunting the northern Crusader States’ eastward expansion.75 In discussion on key themes relevant to the broader trajectory of military events, Osman Latiff has stressed the significance of the fall of Edessa in 1144 in both vivifying jihad poetry and the building of ideological momentum in the struggle with the Franks; Suleiman Mourad and James  E.  Lindsay have stressed the importance of the failed siege of Damascus in galvanizing the same process.76 The significance of the Second Crusade as a turning point in relations between the Latin East and Western Christendom has likewise been discussed above.77 Perhaps the first and most obvious point to make in any such discussion on ‘turning points’ is that this kind of conversation can only take place with the 69  For discussion on this point see: Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement, 38; Asbridge, ‘How the Crusades could have been won’, 74; Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 33, 354. 70  For further discussion on the siege of Damascus as a turning poing see: Hoch, ‘The price of failure’, 180–200. 71  N. Morton, S. Biddlecombe, and N. Hodgson, ‘Three perspectives on the Crusades: when did the fortunes of war turn against the Crusader States?’, History Today website (2015, https://www.historytoday. com/three-perspectives-crusades). 72 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 19.   73 Lewis, The Counts of Tripoli, 172. 74  Jacques de Vitry, Historia orientalis, 422. 75 Morton, The Field of Blood: the Battle for Aleppo, passim. 76 Latiff, The Cutting Edge of the Poet’s Sword, 82, 86, 88, 98, 135; S.  Mourad and J.  Lindsay, ‘A Muslim response to the Second Crusade: Ibn ‘Asākir of Damascus as propagandist of Jihad’, The Second Crusade: Holy War on the Periphery of Latin Christendom, ed. J. Roche and J. Møller-Jensen, Outremer: Studies in the Crusades and the Latin East II (Turnhout, 2015), 92, 110. 77 Phillips, Defenders, 102–3.

conclusion  259 bene­fit of hindsight. In the thick of contemporary events, the sheer unknowability of the future and the fragility of the all the protagonists’ power bases created a highly dynamic and changeable environment. A sudden death, a rebellion, the outbreak of ethnic tensions, the arrival of either a major Crusade, or a large Turkish army from Iraq, changing patterns of migration, the escalation of a sect­ ar­ian dispute, an ill-advised quarrel—the broad direction of events could suddenly swing and shift direction, sometimes on the basis of seemingly minor or trivial events. Any suggestion that the evolution of the Near East in the twelfth century can be described in teleological terms or explained away solely by appealing to long-standing sociological processes should be viewed with suspicion. There were long-term processes of this kind at work (the Turks’ conversion to Islam, the rising migration to the region by both the Turkmen tribes from the east and Western Europeans from the West, etc.) and their significance requires recognition, but the foregoing history has highlighted many moments when individual agency or sudden unforeseen incidents sent events spinning off in other directions. This was a deeply dynamic and convoluted political ecosystem where events and processes rarely describe a smooth chronological arc. These points serve as cautions when picking out ‘turning-points’ for this era and yet there are some tentative conclusions that can perhaps be drawn. Most importantly, the Crusader States were not always doomed to failure. The Franks may have only had a slender population and yet they could still draw upon a steady flow of settlers whilst many local factions (Christian and Muslim) were prepared either to support them, or at least to work with them. Likewise, it has to be remembered that their primary opponent (the Turks) were in much the same position—they too were newcomers to the region and they too relied on migration from their major centres of population to the east. Such a conclusion is also challenged by the many occasions when the Franks came close to securing the region’s major powerhouses (Aleppo between c.1119 and 1125, Damascus 1129, Cairo 1168). It is hazardous to play with questions of ‘how history might have unfolded had events transpired differently’ and yet it seems safe to say that these were regional lynchpins and their possession would have dramatically bolstered the Frankish cause.78 More importantly, the mere fact that the Franks came so close to victory on these occasions demonstrates that they possessed the military capacity to make such game-changing conquests. Perhaps the strongest conclusion that can be made about the long-term ­military history of the Crusader States is that, after an initial conquest period ­following the victories of the First Crusade, their history consisted of a series of near misses.79 The above assaults on major cities each came very close to success.

78  See also: Asbridge, ‘How the Crusades could have been won’, 93. 79 Morton, The Field of Blood: the Battle for Aleppo, 193–9.

260  The Crusader States and their Neighbours The campaigns against Aleppo represent the clearest example of this given that by the late 1110s Aleppo was virtually ringed by Frankish forts and was dependent on Frankish protection. Nevertheless these ventures all failed. The importance of these failures is central to the region’s history. Control over the Near East in the twelfth century hinged on possession of these big cities and all the major factions devoted themselves to contests over metropolises such as: Melitene, Mosul, Aleppo, the Cilician cities, Antioch, Edessa, Tripoli, Tyre, Damascus, and Cairo. There are many reasons for the Franks’ repeated failures to conquer the major inland cities of Damascus, Aleppo, and Cairo, but one consistent factor which stands out is the readiness of urban populations to resist Frankish control, whilst aggressively driving out any groups in their midst who might favour a Frankish takeover. The siege of Aleppo (1124–5) and the assault on Damascus (1129) were vigorously resisted and whilst the Cairene population may have been more tractable to the idea of a Frankish conquest in 1168 (given the previous Fatimid–Frankish co-operation) the behaviour of Amalric’s troops in their sack of Bilbays directly before the siege effectively shut down this possibility. By the late 1170s the prospect of conquering any of these cities was dwindling but in these years the Franks remained a formidable power—still maintaining the aspiration of staging a new campaign against Egypt—and it took over two decades of energetic diplomacy and warfare for Saladin to raise an army large enough to tackle Jerusalem’s main field army. Even at Hattin, the outcome was hardly foreordained. Guy was a competent military commander and possessed one of the lar­ gest Frankish armies ever fielded. In this way, whilst it is fair to say that the initiative shifted to Saladin (probably in the 1180s), it seems unreasonable to talk about any ‘decline’ in the Crusader States’ military power pre-1187 (although it may be fair to talk about relative decline vis-à-vis Saladin’s growing empire). From the Turkish/Ayyubid perspective, identifying meaningful turning points is even more difficult. The empires built by Zangi, Nur al-Din, and Saladin were fragile affairs—appearing monolithic and incontestable right up to a ruler’s death at which point they typically descended into chaos. In such an environment, the development of any territorial polity was tied closely to the life cycle of individual rulers; a process that, by definition, inhibts the identification of long-term trends. Perhaps the most important turning points then need to be sought in different areas. For example, the Turks’ cumulative success in crushing the major Syrian Arab dynasties represented a major turning point in Turkish authority across the region; the subjugation of the Banu Uqayl (which had frequently supported the Franks) in 1168 being a case in point. Moreover, the growing acquaintance of Turkish rulers with jihad propaganda and its utility, both to win political support and to bridge or curb ethnic tensions (between Kurds, Turks, and Arabs) was also a process, if not a turning point, which militated heavily in their favour. Panning out to the more all-encompassing question of why—from a militarypolitical perspective—the Crusader States failed, the answer is again mixed

conclusion  261 and varied. The factors raised thus far are numerous and varied. At a macro level, they include: • the conquest of Egypt by the Zangids/Ayyubids and the destruction of a Fatimids (thus enabling the creation of the Ayyubid Empire); • the failure of the Frankish attempts to conquer inland cities (discussed above); • the dwindling of Byzantine support for the Crusader States following the death of Manuel Comnenus; • the consistent and possibly increased migration of Turkic groups into the Northern Jaziran region in the later twelfth century; • the high calibre of Turkish/Ayyubid leaders throughout this period (seemingly a result of the ‘selection process’ each underwent during the feuding following their predecessor’s death); • the Turks’ successful suppression of Arab dynasties across the region; • the Turks’ growing use of jihad propaganda and their linked ability to win legitimacy over many of the peoples under their control (including many former enemies). Further factors (often linked) can be suggested at the ‘tactical’ level: • the Franks’ weaknesses in offensive warfare when confronted with Turkish light cavalry, coupled with the Turks’ conspicuous strengths in both offensive and defensive warfare; • the Turks’ ability to retaliate with speed, seize opportunities, and conduct sieges quickly, far faster than their Frankish opponents; • the Franks’ inability to devise effective techniques to conquer the region’s major cities and their reliance on time-consuming, resource intensive, siege techniques; • the Franks’ inability to capitalize on battlefield victories coupled with their inability to prevent the Turks from securing major advances on occasions when they were victorious; • disagreements between Eastern Franks and incoming Crusaders and their effect in blunting the efficacy of specific expeditions; • the Turks’ ability to absorb casualties in a manner not possible for the Franks;80 • the Franks’ inability to derive greater advantage from the Turks’ infighting; • the Franks’ very limited success when seeking allies among urban populations in the predominantly Muslim-populated cities they wished to attack;

80 Tibble, The Crusader Armies, 44.

262  The Crusader States and their Neighbours • the Franks’ inability to innovate sufficiently in military affairs to address the above issues (although the Turks were scarcely more innovative); • the tendency for Frankish leaders to be killed or captured on campaign (leading to interregnums and/or large ransoms) set against the very rare occasions when they either killed or captured any top-level Turkish/Ayyubid commander. In the final analysis the broad military-political competition for the Near East of this era was fought out by tens of different countries/tribes/dynasties/religious communities. Even so, within a maze of competing factions, it needs to be recognized that this was an arena primarily contested by two main clusters of invaders: the Franks and the Turks. These conquerors and their shared and conflicting ambition to rule the Near East represent the two impelling forces which, as the century progressed, compelled all other groups to align themselves on one side or another (or perhaps in the case of the Anatolian Seljuks, to back away from the conflict). They adopted different strategies in pursuit of their goals, but the military activities of both parties were firmly rooted within the cultural templates of their societies— the Franks with a hierarchical war machine consisting of mounted elites, infantry forces, and supported by local auxiliaries; and the Turks with a hybridized version of traditional steppe warfare coupled with practices and equipment drawn from the primarily agricultural and urban Islamic world they had overthrown. Neither side possessed anything that could really be said to resemble a ‘technological advantage’81—they both fought in the manner to which they were most accustomed and technological experts (siege engineers, shipbuilders, masons) seem to have passed reasonably freely between the different factions, thereby flattening any briefly held advantage. The differing warcraft adopted by both sides was determined more by their choices and inherent advantages (i.e. the Franks’ preference for siege towers and the Turks’ preference for mining, even though siege towers were not unfamiliar to the Turks and the Franks were perfectly cap­ able of mining). Despite their very different approaches to war-making, the decades-long military encounter between these two traditions was a close run thing, and yet viewed overall the armies raised within the steppe-Islamic milieu showed a marked su­per­ior­ity to Frankish forces in many of the areas listed above. Combating a force comprised largely of mounted archers posed considerable—ultimately insurmountable— challenges for the Franks in the twelfth century Near East, just as the conflicts between steppe peoples and Western Christendom would continue to pose substantial difficulties for European commanders for many cen­tur­ies to come. 81  France, ‘Technology and the success of the First Crusade’, 175. Nicolle reaches a similar verdict but suggests that, if anything, the region’s Muslim societies may have had the technological upper hand: Nicolle, ‘Manufacture and importation’, 141.

conclusion  263 Despite this underlying imbalance, at a tactical level, the First Crusaders and early settlers (1097–1131) still proved remarkably successful against the Turks for several reasons. Their ranks included many highly capable commanders who used every tool and stratagem at their disposal to mitigate the Turks’ strengths. The body of experience and confidence built up during the First Crusade may also have played its part in enabling the subsequent settlement. Despite the longstanding conviction that the First Crusade encountered only limited resistance, the level of Turkish resistance shown to the First Crusade was in fact truly substantial, with five large field armies sent against the Franks (with Karbugha’s force being among the largest armies fielded by any commander during this entire period). The defeats suffered by these armies had catastrophic implications for Turkish authority: their impact amplified by the fact that the Turks: (1) were still relatively new to the region, (2) were often resented by many local communities, (3) and were themselves riven by infighting. This meant that several decades were to pass before the Turks could regain their former front-footed posture and reassert their underlying cultural-military strengths.82 When the Turks did manage to regain the initiative they found the weapons at their disposal well suited to blunting the Franks’ advances and raiding their territories, but they were less effective when combating the Franks’ main field armies (where victory and defeat was experienced in roughly equal measure). The Turks’ successes in the close-fought conflicts over Aleppo, Damascus, and especially Egypt tipped the political/military/ propaganda balance in their favour especially because they were governed by highly able leaders such as Zangi, Nur al-Din, and Saladin, who each were ef­fect­ ive field commanders and reasonably long lived. Finally, the Turks (under the Kurdish Ayyubids) proved victorious at Hattin because they had adapted their military techniques far enough to be able to challenge one of the fundamental tactical tenets of Frankish war-making (that Turkish forces could not block a Frankish fighting march). This, at a tactical military level is—in essence—why the Turks won. Having said this, the struggle between these two peoples was rarely syn­onym­ ous with a war between Christianity and Islam. The Turks at the time of the First Crusade were only part way through their conversion to Islam, while local groups—Christian, Islamic, as well as others—were prepared to support each side (and sometimes both at different times). Both Turks and Franks, by extension, were prepared to receive and encourage support from other faith groups and military assistance was hardly ever turned away on religious grounds by any faction. It does however need to be acknowledged that contemporaries were acutely

82  An indicator of the combat effectiveness of First Crusade veterans can be found in Henry of Huntingdon’s chronicle where he talks about Robert of Normandy’s considerable tactical ability at the battle of Tinchebrai (1106):Henry of Huntingdon, History Anglorum: the History of the English People, ed. D. Greenway, OMT (Oxford, 1996), 454.

264  The Crusader States and their Neighbours sensitive to how the fortunes of war might affect their faith community, while the later decades of this period are marked by an increased willingness among Turkish leaders to rally support against the Crusader States via anti-Frankish/ Christian polemics. The Franks, for their part, viewed their settlement in the Levant as a religious mission and holy war from the outset, but only sporadically captioned this as a venture staged against ‘the Turks’ (or ‘Saracens’); their primary objective being rather to protect the holy places and Jerusalem, whilst expanding their borders where possible. To this end, they would side with anyone who might assist them.  

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Index Note: Tables are indicated by an italic ‘t ’ following the page number. For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Abbasid Empire  13 Ablgharib, Armenian leader  82–6, 84t Acre, city  16–17, 22–3, 88, 112–13, 118–19, 147–8, 153–5, 156t, 184–5, 229–30, 255–6 Adana, town  81, 100–1, 103, 181–3 Adelaide of Salerno, queen of Jerusalem  144–5 al-Afdal, Fatimid ruler  53 al-Afdal, Ayyubid ruler  113–14 Aflis, fort  128–9 Ahmadil, Kurdish ruler  165–6 Aimon, archbishop of Bourges  239–40 ‘Ain al-Mallaha, battle   136–7, 156t Al-Akma, fort  197–8 Al-Al, castle  23 Albert of Aachen, chronicler  10–11, 27, 34, 39–41, 53–7, 59, 62–4, 69, 74, 79–81, 144–5, 158–60, 162, 224–5, 230 Aleppo, city  14–17, 28–9, 35–9, 42–5, 47–9, 62–6, 71–3, 75–7, 88–97, 99–100, 103–4, 106, 108–9, 112, 114–16, 129–31, 133–4, 146–7, 169–73, 183, 189–90, 215–16, 228, 258 Alexandria, city  27, 114–15, 140, 142, 156t, 169 Alexius I Comnenus, Byzantine Emperor  28–9, 36–8, 42–3, 103–4, 238–9 Alice, princess of Antioch  101–3, 189–92 Alfonso Jordan, son of Raymond of Toulouse 30–2 Alp Arslan, Seljuk sultan  51–2, 248 Altuntash, governor of Bosra  253t Amalric I, king of Jerusalem  2, 130–1, 138–45, 148–9, 152–3, 160–1, 207–8, 247, 259–60 Amid, fortress  44, 104–5, 212 Anavarza, town  86, 100 Andernach, battle  230 Andronicus Comnenus, Byzantine Emperor  147–8, 174 Ani, city  248 Anna Comnena, scholar  233, 238–9 Anselm, prior of Bec, archbishop of Canterbury 13 Antioch, city and principality of  2–3, 6, 10–12, 16–19, 25–6, 28–30, 32–3, 35–45, 37t, 40t,

66–7, 76–7, 84–6, 88–94, 97, 99–111, 114, 123–31, 144–7, 149–50, 162, 170–1, 180–3, 189–90, 212–13, 216–17 Apamea, town  9–10, 35, 38, 40t, 115–16, 185–6, 211–12, 237, 245–6 Aqsunqur al-Bursuqi, ruler of Mosul  46, 67–8, 75t, 76–7, 82, 84–5, 87–9, 93, 97, 209–10 Arqa, fortress  16, 30–2, 50, 249–50 Armenians  1–2, 14, 16, 18–19, 38–41, 43, 51–3, 59–60, 62–3, 78–87, 90, 100–1, 103–5, 122, 124, 128–9, 146–7, 181, 249–50 Arnold of Lübeck, chronicler  249–50 Arsuf, town  22–3, 27, 156t Artah, town/battle  38, 40t, 64, 64t, 81, 232 Artuq, Turkic ruler   15, 68 Artuqid dynasty   12, 15, 18, 43–4, 46, 48t, 77, 83, 88–94, 91t, 104–5, 122, 126, 133t, 165–6, 243 Ascalon, city/battle  16–17, 20, 22, 24–5, 27, 50–1, 54t, 56, 58–9, 88, 106–7, 110, 112, 118–19, 137–9, 156t, 198–9, 220, 237–40 Ashdown, battle  222 al-Atharib, stronghold  38–9, 75t, 102–3, 211–12, 216, 231 Atsiz, Turkmen commander  14, 52–3, 135–6 Ayla, stronghold  168–9 Ayn Tab, town  128–9 Aytakin al-Halabi, lord of Bosra  253t Ayyub, Saladin’s father  163 Azaz, town/battles  42, 67–8, 70t, 86, 89–90, 92, 211–12, 232–5, 249–50 Azerbaijan 14 Baalbek, town  72, 163, 216, 253t Badr al-Jumali, Fatimid ruler  14–15, 52–3 Baghdad, city of  14, 51, 66–7, 75–8, 82, 244 Baghras, town and fortress  81 Bagrat, Armenian leader   82–5 Baha al-Din, scholar  167–8 Baiju, Mongol commander  150–1 Balak, Artquid ruler  44–5, 67–8, 92–3, 216, 235, 253t

284 Index Balatanus, town  102–3 al-Balbein, battle  140, 156t, 236 Baldric of Bourgueil, chronicler  164–5 Balduk, Turkish ruler of Samosata  62–3 Baldwin, lord of Marash  106 Baldwin I, count of Edessa, later king of Jerusalem  20–30, 32, 35–6, 43–4, 48t, 56–9, 64t, 75t, 82–3, 85, 107–8, 138, 144–5, 148–9, 158–9, 220, 232–3, 257 Baldwin II, count of Edessa, later king of Jerusalem  38, 42, 44, 47, 48t, 65, 82, 84–6, 90–3, 95–7, 99, 101, 107–10, 113, 115–17, 138, 144–7, 177–8, 195, 207–8, 233 Baldwin III, king of Jerusalem  108–9, 114, 117–20, 129–30, 138, 144–5, 147–8 Baldwin IV, king of Jerusalem  144–5, 150–1, 174–5, 178–80, 251, 255–6 Balis, town  42, 72, 89, 92, 106, 212 Banu Ammar (Arab dynasty)  28, 30 Banu Kilab (Arab tribe/dynasty)  2, 13, 16, 141–2, 189–90, 239 Banu Mazyad (Arab tribe/dynasty)  13–14, 73, 92–3, 141–2, 165, 225, 227 Banu Munqidh (Arab dynasty)  17, 25–6, 30–2, 63–4, 141–2, 163 Banu Shayban (Arab tribe/dynasty)  71–2 Banu Uqayl (Arab dynasty/dynasty)  2, 13, 18, 47, 62–3, 92–3, 106, 141–2, 164, 227, 260 Banyas, town  38, 97–8, 106–7, 136–7, 141, 143, 148–9, 169, 207–8, 211, 214–16, 245–9, 251, 258 Bar Hebraeus, historian  12, 83, 209 Barin, town  103–5, 156t, 211, 214–16 Bartolf of Nangis, chronicler  60–1 Baswaj Bedouin  1–2, 16–17, 20, 23, 51–3, 59–60, 62–3, 92, 138–9, 172–3, 175, 178–80 Beirut, town  22–5, 33–4, 95–6, 172–3, 179, 207 Belvoir, castle  136–7, 214–15 Berbers 51–2 Bertrand, count of Tripoli  30–4, 107–8 Bethgibelin, castle  110 Bethsan, town  156t, 175–6 Biqa valley  32t, 33–4, 97, 112, 171–2, 216 Bilbays, town  140–1, 259–60 Al-Bira, town  48t, 82 Black Mountains  81, 90 Blanchgarde (Tall as-Safi), castle  110 Bohemond I, prince of Antioch  28–9, 35–6, 42–3, 64, 82–3, 85, 103–4, 107–8, 123, 149–50, 195 Bohemond II, prince of Antioch  6, 99–102, 107–8, 110–11, 189–91 Bohemond III, prince of Antioch  130–1, 170–1, 177–8, 181, 183, 256

Bonifacio of Molini, mercenary commander 146–7 Bosra, town  112, 115–17, 132–3, 186–7, 216 Bouvines, battle  153 al-Buqay‘a, battle  56, 234–5 Burchard of Strassburg, envoy  172 Buri, son of Tughtakin, ruler of Damascus  68–9, 97–8 Bursuq of Hamadhan, Turkish commander  25–6, 39, 46, 70t, 75t, 77, 91t, 177, 232 Al-Bursuqi, ruler of Mosul  236–7 Buyid dynasty  14, 227 Buza, town  89–90, 92, 216 Buzan, Turkish commander  82 Byzantine Empire  1, 14, 16, 28–9, 35, 38, 42–5, 74–5, 84–6, 94–5, 103–5, 109–11, 122, 124–7, 129–31, 140, 144–8, 164, 174, 181–2, 198, 203–4, 206, 220–2, 227, 231, 237–41, 249–50 Caesarea, town  22–3 Cairo, city  27–8, 72–3, 140, 142 Castellum Arnaldi (Yalu), castle  50–1 Castrogiovanni, castle  231 Cecilia, countess of Tripoli   32–3 Charles I of Anjou  240–1 Chastel Blanc, castle  32–3 Cilicia, region  2, 6, 18–19, 28–9, 35–6, 38–9, 41–3, 78, 81, 84–8, 90, 100–4, 110–11, 123, 127, 129–30, 181–3, 203–4, 213–14, 231, 245 Conrad III, king of Germany  112–20, 147, 256–7 Conradin, Hohenstaufen ruler  240–1 Constance, princess of Antioch  101–3 Constantine, Armenian ruler (Roupenid dynasty) 85–6 Constantine of Gargar, Armenian ruler  87 Constantinople, city  42–3, 84–5, 103, 112, 122, 127, 130–1 Coxon (Goksun), town  81 Crema, town  247 Crusades First  16–22, 29–30, 35–6, 42–3, 50, 62, 66–7, 81–2, 86, 108, 122–3, 201–2, 225–6, 231 1101 28–9 Second  3, 108, 112–21, 124–5, 131–2, 146–7 Third  118, 184–5, 226, 229–30 Cyprus, island  1, 28–9, 129–30, 144–5, 147–8, 185, 222–3 Damascus, city  3, 14–15, 17, 20, 24, 26, 28–32, 46–51, 58, 62, 66–78, 88–90, 96–8, 103–20, 126, 131–43, 148–9, 161, 164, 168–9, 171–3, 204, 206–7, 211, 228, 245–6, 256–7 Damietta, siege  140, 142, 247

Index  285 Dandanqan, battle  226–7 Danishmendid Turks  2–3, 6, 35, 44, 46, 82–4, 100–1, 104–5, 122–31, 146–7, 169, 181, 197–8, 212 Darum, castle  143, 156t, 172–3, 179, 187 Daud, Artuqid ruler  105 Devol, treaty  42–3 Dirgham, Fatimid vizier  139–40 Diyar Bakr region  13, 18, 43–4, 47–9, 74, 90, 104–5, 163–4, 167 Dog river, battle  59, 67–9, 70t, 220, 232–3 Dorylaeum, battle  11–12, 16, 225–6 Dubays, Banu Mazyad ruler   75t, 92–3, 134, 205 Duqaq, Seljuk ruler  15, 62–4, 66–8, 72, 124 Edessa, county of   2–3, 6, 10–11, 18–19, 25–6, 36–9, 40t, 42–9, 46t, 48t, 56, 62–3, 65–6, 74–7, 81–5, 87, 89–90, 91t, 92, 97, 99–102, 104–6, 110–12, 122–7, 129, 133t, 155–8, 165–6, 181, 186–9, 191–2, 211–12, 236, 243, 245–6, 258 Egypt (see ‘Fatimid Empire’) Ernoul, Frankish author   151–2 Euphrates river  18, 72, 82, 89, 92, 106, 216 Fakhr al-Dawla, Seljuk commander  164 al-Farama, town  27, 138 Fatimid Empire  1, 3, 13–17, 20, 25–8, 36, 50–64, 54t, 68, 106–8, 110, 135–43, 146–7, 163, 168–9, 177–9, 195, 197–9, 204, 206–8, 237 Fer, Armenian lord  82–3 Field of Blood, battle of  2–3, 40t, 85, 90, 91t, 185–6, 202, 213–14, 228, 234, 258 La Forbelet, battle  156t, 172–3, 173t Frederick I, emperor of Germany  247 Frederick II, emperor of Germany  147–8 Fulcher of Chartres, chronicler  10–11, 25, 53–9, 72–3, 158–60 Fulk, king of Jerusalem  101–3, 106–10, 138, 189–92, 201, 232 Gabriel, ruler of Melitene  35, 82, 195 Galeran of Le Puiset, Frankish noble  82 Gargar, town  103 Gaza, town  172–3 Genoa, city  22–3, 27, 29–30, 38–9, 85, 183, 206 Georgia, Georgians  14, 16, 47–9, 92, 122, 146–7 Ghaznavid Turks  13, 226–7, 232–3 Ghiyath al-Din Kay Khusraw II, Anatolian Seljuk Sultan 146–7 Gibelacar, castle  245 Godfrey of Bouillon, ruler of Jerusalem  20–3, 26–8, 35, 82–3, 107–8, 156t Gregory the Priest, Armenian author  78

Grigor, Armenian Catholicos  183 Guibert of Nogent, chronicler  42, 233 Gumushtagin, governor of Harim  253t Gumushtagin al-Taji, governor of Baalbek  253t Guy of Lusignan, king of Jerusalem  148–51, 175–9, 184–9, 232–3, 243–4, 260 al-Habis (cave of Sueth), castle  23–4, 245, 249–50 Hadath, battle  220–1 Haifa, town  22–3, 249–50 Hama, town  17, 66, 77, 103–4, 165–6, 169–72, 212, 215–16 Hamadhan, city  15, 46 Harim, battle  2–3, 12, 141, 177–8, 211–12, 232, 258 Harim, fortress  40t, 81, 128–31, 170–2, 190, 212, 216, 230, 245–6, 249–50 Harran, battle  25, 36–8, 40t, 44–5, 48t, 64, 84, 91t, 99, 115–16, 165, 191, 202, 207–8, 222, 232 Hattin, battle  3, 156t, 170–1, 173t, 184–9, 191, 202, 243–4 Hawran region  17, 23–4, 26, 71, 96–8, 106–7, 112, 115–16, 168–9, 172, 216 Henry II, king of England  147–9, 192–3 Henry VI, German emperor  85, 249–50 Henry, duke of Saxony  147–8, 255–6 Hisn ad-Deir, fortified monastery  214–15 Homs, town  17, 29–30, 34, 44, 63–4, 66, 103–4, 169–72, 173t, 212, 215–16, 252–5 Horns of Hama, battle  133t, 173t Hospital, military religious order  9–10, 34, 103–4, 129, 180, 214–15, 223, 243 Hugh, count of Jaffa  106–7, 138 Hugh, lord of Tiberias  23–4 Hunin, castle  136–7, 141, 214–15 Ibelin, Frankish dynasty  147–8 Ibelin, stronghold/battle  54t, 58–9, 110, 156t, 234–5 Ibn Abi Tayy, scholar  138–9 Ibn al-Athir, scholar  11–12, 29–30, 39–41, 44, 53–6, 58, 61, 64, 74, 94, 97, 99, 103, 118–19, 135–6, 140, 167–8, 175–6, 180, 182–3, 196–7, 243, 253t Ibn Faqih al-Hamadhani, scholar  225 Ibn al-Furat, scholar  29, 59–60, 204 Ibn Hamdan, leader of Fatimid Turkish troops 51–3 Ibn Muyassar, scholar  53–5, 58 Ibn al-Qalanisi, scholar  11, 53–6, 90–2, 117–19, 158–9, 200, 209–10 Ibn Ruzzik, Fatimid vizier  138–9 Ibn Shaddad, scholar  95, 176

286 Index Ilghazi, Artquid ruler  25–6, 40t, 44–5, 67–8, 76–7, 88–95, 146–7, 156t, 231 Imad al-Din, scholar  11 Inab, battle  40t, 124–6, 128–9, 149–50, 177–8, 202, 213–14, 232 Innocent II, pope  146–7 Irbil, city  165 Isaac Comnenus, ruler of Cyprus  222–3 Isfahan, city  15

Kesoun, town  83, 104, 123, 125–9 Khutlugh, governor of Azaz  253t Khutlugh, Turkish ruler of Aleppo  93–4 Kogh Vasil, Armenian lord  38–9, 83–5, 84t, 87, 209–10 Kose Dagh, battle  146–7 Krak des Chevaliers, castle  29–30, 32–3, 38–9, 103–4, 214–15, 244 Kurds  1–2, 13–14, 18, 104–5, 163–8, 182–3

Jabala, town  36, 38–9 Jacob’s Ford, castle  156t, 172, 214–15, 248–9 Jaffa, town  16, 50–1, 56–9, 106–7, 156t, 198–9, 214–15, 229–30 Jaffa, treaty  210–11 Jalal al-Mulk, ruler of Tripoli  28 James of Molay, Templar master  80–1 James of Vitry, bishop of Acre  245, 258 Janah al-Dawla, ruler of Homs  29–30, 63–8 Jawuli, ruler of Mosul  40t, 45, 64t, 65–6, 75t, 124 Jayyash, ruler of Yemen  227 Jehoshaphat, Latin abbey  100 Jerusalem, city  15–16, 38–9, 88, 214 Jerusalem, kingdom  2–3, 6, 10–11, 16–28, 21t, 32–4, 36, 46, 50–62, 54t, 67–9, 76, 96–9, 101–2, 106–20, 128–9, 131–43, 147–8, 155–62, 168–80, 198, 204, 242 John II Comnenus, Byzantine emperor  42–3, 103–4, 108–9, 127, 181, 231 John Gale, Frankish mercenary  146–7, 229 John Kinnamos  231 John Kontostephanos, Byzantine commander 147–8 John of Liminata, mercenary captain  146–7 John of Plano Carpini  219–20, 240–1 Jokermish, ruler of Mosul  44–6, 66, 124, 165 Joscelin of Courtenay, lord of Tiberias, count of Edessa  44–5, 47, 50–1, 68–9, 85–6, 92, 99–101, 108, 165–6, 235, 253t Joscelin II of Courtenay, count of Edessa  101–6, 125–6, 144–5, 186–7, 190–2, 205, 236, 243 Joscelin III of Courtenay, titular count of Edessa 181 Joscelin Pissellus  138 Jubail, town  30, 34 Juyush Beg, ruler of Mosul  165

Lambron, town  86 Las Navas de Tolosa, battle  153–5 Latakia, city  35–6, 38, 41–3, 102–3, 213–14 Leon, son of Constantine, Armenian ruler (Roupenid dynasty)  85–6 Leon I, Armenian ruler  100–1, 103 Lincoln, battle  11 Louis VII, king of France  112–20, 130–1, 223, 238–9 Lulu, ruler of Aleppo  77, 88–9

Kafartab, stronghold  99, 102–3, 211–12, 231 Kamal al-Din, scholar  35, 64, 234–5 Kara Arslan, Artuqid ruler  91t, 105, 205 Karbugha, ruler of Mosul  43, 46–7, 66–7, 74, 79–80, 164–5, 188, 225–6 Kella, battle  35, 65 Kerak, castle  173–4, 173t, 214–15

Ma‘arrat Mesrin, town  101 Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘man, town  17, 102–3, 212, 247–50 Maine, county  95 Malik Shah, Seljuk sultan  15, 62, 71–3, 164, 199–200 Mamistra, town  35–6, 38–9, 81, 84–5, 100–1, 103, 182–3 Mamluk empire  166–7, 196 Manbij, town  42, 48t, 91t, 92, 100, 137, 253t Manuel Comnenus, Byzantine emperor  127, 129–31, 143, 147–8, 152–3, 174, 181–2, 261 Manzikert, battle  14 al-Maqrizi, scholar  56, 158–9 Maraclea, town  32–3 Marash, town  39, 44–5, 81, 104, 106, 124–7, 245–6 Marco Polo, traveller and writer  80–1 Mardin, town  18, 44, 47–9, 164–5 Maria Comnenus, queen of Jerusalem   130–1 Marino Sanudo, writer  228–9 Marj al-Suffar, battle  96–7, 232–3 Marwanid Kurds  13, 163–4 Maskana, village  184 Mas‘ud, Anatolian Seljuk sultan  124–7 Mas‘ud, son of Aqsunqur  97 Matthew of Edessa, Armenian writer  12, 80–3, 86, 115–16 Mawdud, ruler of Mosul  10–11, 25–6, 38–9, 40t, 46–7, 48t, 67–8, 74–6, 75t, 82–4, 86–7, 165 Maysaf, castle  29 Mayyafariqin, town  71–2, 124 Meander valley (Anatolia)  18 Medina, city  172–3

Index  287 Melisende, queen of Jerusalem  106–8, 110, 117, 119–20, 138, 245 Melitene, city  1, 18, 39–41, 40t, 44, 48t, 82–3, 104–5, 122–3, 146–7, 195, 197–8, 212 Mercadier, mercenary Captain  148–9 Mercenaries  10–11, 143–53 Michael the Syrian, Jacobite patriarch of Antioch, historian  58–9, 62–3, 101, 167, 200, 209, 229, 243, 253t Mleh, ruler of Cilician Armenia  182 Mohammed, Danishmendid ruler  122–5, 200 Mohammed, Seljuk sultan  39, 73–5, 77–8, 124, 165, 199–200, 248 Mongols  219–20, 240–1 Monreal, castle  24, 156t, 214–15 Mons Peregrinorum (Pilgrims’ Mount), castle 28–9 Montgisard, battle  9–10, 156t, 169–70, 172, 173t, 179, 234–5 Morfia, daughter of Gabriel of Melitene  82 Mosul, city  1, 14, 18, 44–9, 62–3, 66, 74, 75t, 76–7, 93, 95, 97, 99–100, 124, 142–3, 163–4, 172–3 Mount Cadmus, battle  223, 238–9 Mount Tabor, abbey  141, 175–6 Muhyi al-Din, ruler of Damascus  26, 72, 253t Mujir al-Din, ruler of Damascus  253t Musilimiya, town  44 al-Mustansir, Fatimid caliph  52–3 al-Mustarshid, Abbasid caliph  165 Nasa, battle  232–3 Nerses Snorhali, Armenian author  78 Nicaea, city  16, 82–3, 88, 122–3, 249–50 Nicetas Choniates, scholar  127, 231, 247 Nicusus, Armenian lord   82–3, 87 Nile, river  1, 14–15, 27, 29–30, 50–1, 139, 168–9, 172, 198–9 Nisbis, town   44, 47 Nizam al-Mulk, Seljuk vizier  62, 163 Nizaris (“Assassins”)  1, 17, 29–30, 65–6, 73, 75–6, 93, 97–8, 127–8, 134, 205, 252–5, 253t Nur al-Din, Turkish ruler of Aleppo and Damascus  2, 112, 115–16, 125–43, 133t, 163, 166, 168–71, 177, 182, 186, 188, 200–2, 209, 211, 214–15, 236, 242, 244, 251, 253t, 260 Nusrat al-Din, Nur al-Din’s brother  137 Odo, lord of Déols  239–40 Omar, Turkish ruler of Azaz  62–4 Orderic Vitalis, chronicler  20, 27, 100, 108–9 Oshin of Lambron, Armenian ruler  86

Otto, bishop of Freising  118–19, 147 Otto II, emperor of Germany  51 Otto IV, emperor of Germany  153 Palmarea, town  112, 118–19 Palmyra, town  96–7 Paulicians 53 St Paul’s, abbey  183 Peter Desiderius, first crusader  27 Petra, ancient settlement in Transjordan  215–16 Philaretus, Byzantine commander  82 Philip, count of Flanders  256 Philip II, king of France  147–9, 192–3 Philip of Novare  147–8 Pisa, city  22–3, 138–9, 206 Pons, count of Tripoli  32–4, 107–8, 110 al-Qadi al-Fadil, politician and scholar  206 Qal‘at Ja‘bar  18, 47, 62–3, 106, 141–2 Qilij Arslan I, Anatolian Seljuk sultan  46, 65–6, 82, 122–4, 200 Qilij Arslan II, Anatolian Seljuk sultan  122–3, 126–7, 173t, 229 Qinnisrin, battle  101–3, 106–7, 189–92, 195, 201–2, 232 Qusair, castle  190 Qutb al-Din, Zangid ruler of Mosul  142–3 Raban, town  83–4 Rafaniyya, town  29–30, 33–4, 77–8, 103–4 211, 214–215 Rahba, town  71–2 Ralph of Caen, chronicler  144–5, 225–6, 233 Raqqa, town  44, 106 Ramla, town/battles  27, 50–1, 54t, 56–9, 67–8, 70t, 156t, 158–9, 198–9, 211, 214–15, 234–5, 257 Ravendel, town  81–3 Raymond of Poitiers, prince of Antioch  102–4, 107–8, 110, 125–7, 129, 177–8, 191 Raymond of Toulouse, count of Tripoli  18–19, 27–32, 34, 56, 67–9, 107–8 Raymond III, count of Tripoli  171–2, 184–6, 188, 206, 236, 252–6 Rayy, city  15 Red Sea  168–9, 172–3, 180 Reynald of Châtillon, prince of Antioch, ruler of Transjordan 40t, 129–31, 133t, 144–5, 172–3, 180, 243–5, 256–7 Rhodes, island  147–8 Richard, earl of Cornwall  153–5 Ridwan, Seljuk ruler of Aleppo  15, 17, 36–9, 45, 51, 62–6, 72–7, 75t, 83, 88–9, 199, 232, 252–5, 253t

288 Index Richard I, king of England  148–50, 192–3, 229–30, 249–50 Richard of Salerno, Antiochene noble  45, 80–1 Robert Guiscard, Norman ruler  24, 230 Roger, count of Sicily  231 Roger of Rozoy, castellan of Jaffa  50–1 Roger of Salerno, ruler of Antioch  39, 77, 86, 88–90, 107–9, 112, 149–50, 191 Romanus IV Diogenes, Byzantine emperor 249–50 Roupen III, ruler of Cilician Armenia  181–3 Roupenids, Armenian dynasty  85–6, 90, 100–1, 103, 126, 129–30, 181–2 Roussel de Bailleul, Norman mercenary commander  235 Sadaqa, leader of the Banu Mazyad  73, 225 Saewulf, pilgrim  159–60 Safad, fortress  136–7, 214–15 Saffuriya, castle  175–8, 184, 186 Saladin, sultan of Egypt  2, 44–5, 95, 142–3, 146–7, 153, 160–1, 163, 166–89, 206–7, 210–11, 218–19, 230, 236, 242, 252–5, 253t, 260 al-Salih, Zangid ruler, Nur al-Din’s son  169–71 Salim ibn Malik, ruler of Qalat Jabar  47 Saltukids of Erzurum  123 Samosata, town  80–1 San Marco, castle  24 Sarkhak, governor of Harim  253t Sarmin, town  35 Saruj, town  48t, 56, 141–2, 220, 234–5 Savranda, town  103 Sawar, Zangi’s governor in Aleppo  101–3, 108, 189–90, 201–2, 211–14, 216–17 Sayf al-Dawla, Hamdanid ruler  220–1 Sayf al-Din, ruler of Mosul  74, 116–17, 165, 169, 235–6 Seljuks of Anatolia  2–3, 35, 65–6, 73–5, 75t, 84, 100, 102–5, 110–11, 120, 122–31, 142–3, 146–7, 163–4, 169, 181, 205–7, 212, 229 Seljuk Sultanate (the “Great Seljuks”)  13, 17, 71–2, 124, 199–200, 203–4, 226–7 Shaizar, town of  9–10, 17, 25–6, 32t, 38–9, 75–6, 103–4, 115–16, 156t, 162, 170–1, 181, 231, 238–9, 245–6 Shahanshah, Seljuk sultan of Anatolia  74–5 Shams al-Dawla, son of Ilghazi, Artuqid ruler  92 Shams al-Din, governor of Baalbek  253t Shaqif Tirun, cave fortress  106–7 Sharaf al-Ma‘ali, Fatimid army commander  58 Shawar, Fatimid vizier  59–60, 139–40, 206 Shirkuh, Kurdish commander  139–43, 163, 195, 204, 214, 236 Sidon, town  22–5, 33–4, 70t, 156t, 179, 214, 257

Sigurd, king of Norway  257 Simon of St Quentin  150–1 Sinai desert  172, 198–9, 245 Sirkal, governor of Bosra  253t Sis, town  86 Sivas, town  126–7 Sokman, Artuqid ruler  36, 44–6, 64 Sokman al-Qutbi, Turkish commander  74–5 Stephen, king of England  148–9 Sudanese infantry  51–3, 59–61 al-Sulami, scholar  68 Tagliacozzo, battle  240–1 Talamria 40t Tancred, ruler of Antioch  25–6, 29–30, 32–3, 35–6, 38–9, 42, 45, 64t, 65, 75t, 81, 84–5, 84t, 107–8, 115–16, 144–5, 149–50, 231–2, 238–9, 252–5, 253t Tarsus, town  35–6, 81, 100–1, 182–3, 231 Taurus mountains  85–6, 100, 122 Tell ‘Arran  249–50 Tell Bashir, town  44–7, 48t, 81–3, 101, 156t, 186 Tell Danith, battles of  12, 40t, 56, 67–8, 77, 91t, 92–3, 156t, 201–2, 234–5 Templars, military order  78, 118, 128–9, 184, 223, 238–9 Thierry, count of Flanders  256–7 Theodora, queen of Jerusalem  129–30 Theodoric, pilgrim  159–60 Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury  147–8 Tiberias, lake  23, 172–3 Tiberias, town  25–6, 67–8, 70t, 76, 156t, 162, 184–6, 211, 214–15, 248–9 Tiflis, town  163 Timurtash, son of Ilghazi, Artuqid ruler  91t, 92 Tinnis, town  215–16 Toron, castle  249–50 Toros, governor of Edessa  83 Toros, son of Constantine, Armenian ruler (Roupenid dynasty)  85–6 Toros II, Armenian ruler  129–31, 181–2 Tortosa, town/battle  28–9, 32–4, 32t, 56, 67–9, 70t, 128, 234–5, 245–6 Transjordan region  17, 23–4, 26, 32–3, 70t, 71, 106–7, 112, 168–9, 172–3, 181, 211, 245 Tripoli, city and Frankish county  16–19, 22–3, 25–6, 28–34, 31t, 32t, 38, 40t, 70t, 88, 96–7, 101–4, 107–8, 111, 114, 118–19, 141, 156t, 164–5, 171–2, 185–6, 197–8, 214–16, 236–7, 243 Tughril, Seljuk sultan  163–4 Tughtakin, atabeg and ruler of Damascus  20, 23–4, 26, 30, 33–4, 58, 66–78, 92, 96–8, 197–9, 228, 253t Turan Shah, Ayyubid ruler  172, 195, 253t

Index  289 Turkmen tribes  1–3, 14, 18, 44, 47–9, 69, 71, 74, 89–90, 92, 115–16, 132–3, 165, 167–8, 182–3, 189–90, 203–4, 213–16, 226–8, 239 Tutush, brother of Sultan Malik Shah  15, 62, 82–3, 164 Tutush, son of Duqaq  72 Tyre, city  16–17, 22, 24–5, 51, 88, 95–6, 114, 118–19, 156t, 162, 253t Unur, Damascene ruler  112, 131–2 Urban III, pope  183 Usama ibn Munqidh, warrior and scholar  9–10, 79–80, 97, 99, 107–8, 149–50, 163, 190, 202, 231

113, 120, 126, 142, 160–1, 175–80, 186–7, 208, 228–9, 242, 253t, 256 William I, king of England  150–1, 153, 230 William II, king of Sicily  147–8 William, prince of Morea  240–1 William Jordan of Cerdagne, ruler of Tripoli  30–4, 107–8 William of Malmesbury, chronicler  53–7, 149–50 William of Poitiers, chronicler  95, 150–1, 222, 230 William of Ypres, mercenary captain  148–9

Venice, city  22–3, 28, 95–6, 206

Yaghi Siyan, governor of Antioch  231 Yaghra, battle  127–9, 133t Yaruqktash, Aleppan leader  88–9 Yarmuk river  23–4 Yca, son of the governor of Manbij  253t

Walter the Chancellor, chronicler  10–12 Wibald, abbot of Corvey  118–19, 147 William, archbishop or Tyre, chronicler  3–4, 10–11, 23, 29, 44, 48t, 53–5, 58–9, 80–1,

Zangi, ruler of Aleppo and Mosul  11, 44–5, 91t, 94, 99–113, 122, 124–5, 127, 163, 165, 170–1, 206–7 Zardana, stronghold  38–9, 42, 102–3, 156t, 212