Call to Arms: Piacenza and Clermont, 1095

Clermont, France – November 27, 1095: A late autumn sun gleams off the golden cross atop the village church as a vast throng crowds into a field outside the city. Pope Urban II, clad in white and red robes, ascends a makeshift wooden platform. The murmuring of thousands – peasants in woolen tunics, knights in battered mail, bishops in solemn vestments – falls to a hush. Urban raises a hand to the heavens. “Dearest brethren, across the sea our fellow Christians in the East are desolate, afflicted by an accursed race,” he proclaims, voice ringing out. He recounts how a “barbaric fury” has ravaged the Eastern churches, even enslaving Jerusalem, “the Holy City of Christ”[1]. Faces in the crowd blanch as Urban describes foreign invaders – Seljuk Turks – defiling holy altars and torturing the faithful. The Pope’s eyes flash. “Whoever fights to reclaim the holy places,” he cries, “does so for penance and God’s glory. All who die on this journey shall have immediate remission of sins!”[2] At this promise – unprecedented and profound – a ripple of awe passes over the multitude. According to later chronicles, voices erupt unbidden: “Deus vult! Deus vult!” – “God wills it!” – the crowd supposedly roars as one[3]. Men and women fall to their knees in tears. A French knight, moved beyond restraint, rips a strip of red cloth and crosses to the Pope, begging to be the first to take the cross. Urban pins the fabric cross to the knight’s shoulder with trembling hands. Within moments, thousands surge forward to vow their lives to this iter (journey) to Jerusalem. “Let this one refrain inspire you,” Urban exhorts above the din: “Christ commands it!”[4].

Penitential Warfare – The Theology of the Crusade: Pope Urban framed the expedition not as mere war but as a holy pilgrimage with arms. Borrowing from the language of penance and pilgrimage, he offered a plenary indulgence – the full remission of the penalties of sin – to all who would take up the cross[5]. At Clermont, Urban declared that any crusader who confessed and embarked “would earn full remission” by this act of self-sacrifice[6]. This radical promise transformed the campaign into a penitential war, a novel fusion of knightly violence with Christian penance. Preachers spread the message that fighting “in service to Christ” could cleanse one’s soul as surely as a pilgrimage to Rome or Jerusalem[7][2]. Thus, many knights who had spent their lives in bloodshed saw a chance for spiritual redemption even as they wielded the sword. This concept would become a cornerstone of crusading ideology – a potent spiritual incentive underpinning the fervor of 1096.

As the Council of Clermont disperses, an electric zeal sweeps the towns and villages of France. Contemporary accounts report that news of the Pope’s fiery sermon “quickly spread by word of mouth through all the regions of Gaul”[8]. The Gesta Francorum, an anonymous eyewitness chronicle, notes how the French people, “upon hearing such reports, forthwith caused crosses to be sewn on their right shoulders, saying that they followed with one accord the footsteps of Christ”[8]. In the weeks after Clermont, shops run out of red cloth as men, women, and even children stitch cloth crosses to their garments. A spiritual mass movement has begun.

But this monumental endeavor was not conceived in a vacuum. Months earlier, in March 1095, Urban II convened a great synod at Piacenza, Italy. There, ambassadors from Byzantine Emperor Alexios I Komnenos knelt at the Pope’s feet, tearfully describing their plight. The Eastern Roman Empire, they reported, had been overrun in Anatolia by the Seljuk Turks – “a people despised and base… which worships demons,” as Urban later characterized them[9][10]. Since the shattering Byzantine defeat at Manzikert (1071), Asia Minor had largely fallen; Christian cities lay in ruins, and devout pilgrims to Jerusalem suffered robbery and worse[11][12]. Alexios urgently begged for Western knights to come east and help push back the infidels. Pope Urban, fresh from asserting Rome’s leadership over Latin Christendom, saw both a moral duty and an opportunity: aiding the Eastern brethren could heal the Great Schism of 1054 and extend Rome’s influence, even as it redirected the warring energies of Europe’s quarrelsome nobles toward a holy cause[13][14].

Thus at Clermont, Urban unveiled a grand spiritual enterprise. He framed it as an armed pilgrimage to rescue the Eastern Church and liberate Christ’s tomb. He invoked Christian knighthood’s ideal: “Let those who have been fighting their brothers and inflicting injustice now go fight lawfully against barbarians,” he implored. “Let those who have been robbers now become knights of Christ. Let those who have been mercenaries for coin now attain the eternal reward”[15]. The response exceeded all expectation. As one medieval observer marveled, “the number of men, women, and children exceeded a locust horde covering the earth”[16]. Urban himself, astonished by the mass enthusiasm, hurriedly wrote letters to various regions trying to regulate participation – urging that priests not depart without their bishop’s leave, that the elderly and infirm stay home, that women travel only with male guardians[17][18]. Yet such controls proved futile. The momentum was unstoppable.

By early 1096, tens of thousands of Europeans from all social strata had “taken the cross.” Chroniclers estimate that as many as 100,000 people eventually joined the First Crusade, including perhaps 7,000–10,000 knights and noblemen, along with masses of foot-soldiers, clergy, peasants, and camp followers[19]. This outpouring went far beyond Pope Urban’s original plan to send a small elite force to aid Byzantium[20][21]. A spiritual wildfire spread: fiery preachers fanned across the countryside, painting vivid tales of the Holy Land’s suffering and the glory awaiting its liberators. The crusading army would depart on August 15, 1096 – the Feast of the Assumption – giving participants time to sell lands, settle affairs, and gather supplies[22][13].

Yet in their fervor, many would not wait. A vast and unruly popular movement was already coalescing, driven by zeal – and destined for tragedy – before the princes of Europe even donned their armor. The stage was set for an unprecedented march of peoples across the known world, propelled by faith, hope of redemption, and a deep well of medieval Christian piety that sanctified warfare in the name of God.

The Muslim World in 1095 – A House Divided: The Islamic Near East on the eve of the First Crusade was politically fragmented and in turmoil. The once-mighty Seljuk Empire had splintered following the death of Sultan Malik-Shah in 1092. His relatives and generals feuded over the spoils: in Anatolia, Malik-Shah’s son Kilij Arslan established a Sultanate of Rûm; in Syria, Malik-Shah’s brother Tutush seized power but was soon killed (1095) in a civil war against a rival claimant[23]. Tutush’s sons – Ridwan in Aleppo and Duqaq in Damascus – became bitter rivals, each carving out his own emirate[23]. Far to the east in Persia and Iraq, the Seljuk sultans and the nominal Abbasid caliph in Baghdad exercised little effective control over the distant Syrian frontier. Meanwhile, the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt – adherents of Shi’a Islam – had been watching eagerly for an opening to reclaim lost territories. Capitalizing on Seljuk disarray, the Fatimid forces invaded Palestine; by August 1098 they had reconquered Jerusalem from the Seljuks, asserting Shia control over the holy city[24]. Crucially, the Sunni Seljuks and Shi’ite Fatimids were as much enemies to each other as to the Christian Franks. The two great Muslim powers were locked in a sectarian schism, sapping any chance of a unified front. As historian Amin Maalouf notes, local Muslims witnessed “behaviour during that sinister winter [1098–99] that could not be accounted for by hunger… fanatical Franj Tafurs… openly proclaiming they would chew the flesh of Saracens around their campfires”[25] – chilling rumors that sowed dread. In sum, on the eve of the crusade the Islamic world was wracked by division and complacency; the sudden arrival of a massive Frankish armed host in 1097 took many Muslim princes by surprise[23]. This disunity and mutual distrust among the Turks and Fatimids would critically undermine the Muslim response to the coming invasion, giving the Crusaders a window of opportunity in which to strike.

The People’s Crusade and the Rhineland Massacres (1096)

They came first not as disciplined knights, but as a deluge of the devout. In the spring of 1096, months before the high lords of Europe were ready to depart, a vast unruly mass of peasants, minor knights, and itinerant poor set out for the Holy Land in what became known as the People’s Crusade[26][27]. Their spiritual guide was the charismatic preacher Peter the Hermit, a ragged monk astride a donkey who preached fervently that Christ himself had commanded this journey. Fired by Peter’s words of apocalypse and redemption, thousands of ordinary folk – men, women, and children – took to the roads of Germany and Hungary with unshakable faith that God would lead them to Jerusalem. One chronicler describes this horde as “so numerous that their footsteps stirred the very dust of the earth, like an army of locusts”[16].

As this tide of pilgrims moved down the Rhine Valley in early 1096, however, pious zeal soon gave way to violent fanaticism. Rumors swirled among the crusaders: Why march a thousand leagues to fight Muslims, some asked, when infidels lived amidst them at home? In their midst, some preachers pointed to local Jewish communities as alleged enemies of Christ. A dangerous logic took hold: “Look now,” some were heard to say, “we are going to seek out and destroy the enemies of God in the East, but here under our own noses are the Jews – the people who murdered and crucified our Lord”[28]. Thus, bands of crusaders turned against the Jewish populations of the Rhineland with horrifying ferocity.

In Speyer, Worms, Mainz, and other cities along the Rhine in May–June 1096, mobs of armed pilgrims fell upon the Jews. Chroniclers record scenes of terror: in Mainz, hundreds of Jewish families sought refuge in the palace of the Archbishop, who sympathized and tried to protect them[29]. But an army of crusaders under Count Emicho of Leiningen besieged the palace. As the outer doors were smashed open, Rabbi Kalonymus ben Meshullam led his community in a final act of faith. Rather than submit to forced conversion or slaughter, some parents tragically slew their own children and themselves – sanctifying God’s name in martyrdom, according to Hebrew accounts[30]. When Emicho’s men burst in, they massacred those remaining. “Thus were the precious children of Zion tried with ten trials like Abraham our father,” laments the Mainz Anonymous, an eyewitness Jewish chronicle[31]. Blood flowed in the sanctuaries; entire communities were wiped out. It is estimated that over 5,000 Jews were killed in these early pogroms, perhaps more than 10,000, an unprecedented catastrophe in European Jewish history[32][29].

A Jewish chronicler, Solomon bar Simson, writing decades later, vividly described the crusaders as “arrogant people, a people of strange speech, a nation bitter and impetuous – Frenchmen and Germans – [who] set out for the Holy City… to conquer the land for themselves”[33]. He recounts how these crusaders “decorated themselves with a profane symbol – a horizontal line over a vertical one – on the garments of every man and woman whose heart yearned to go”[16] (a clear reference to the red cross). As their ranks swelled “beyond number,” they turned against the Jews in their midst. Solomon bar Simson puts chilling words in the crusaders’ mouths: “Let us first avenge ourselves on [the Jews] and exterminate them, so that the name of Israel will no longer be remembered, or else let them adopt our faith”[28]. The beleaguered Jewish communities saw the crusaders’ assault as a second coming of Amalek, a biblically foretold enemy. Many chose martyrdom (Kiddush Hashem) over baptism. Mothers slit the throats of infants; husbands fell on their swords – horrific scenes that Hebrew chronicles describe in wrenching detail[31].

While most Latin Christian chronicles of the First Crusade say little of these massacres, one notable exception is the chronicle of Albert of Aachen. Writing around 1100, Albert offers a surprisingly sympathetic account. He notes that he isn’t sure “if it was by God’s judgment or some madness of mind,” but these bands of “pilgrims rose in a spirit of cruelty against the Jews scattered in the cities, inflicting a most cruel slaughter” and claiming it as “the beginning of their crusade and service against the enemies of Christianity”[34]. Albert’s account, albeit brief, acknowledges that the attackers rationalized the pogroms in religious terms – as if purging infidels at home were the first step of their holy mission[34].

The Church hierarchy was horrified by the anti-Jewish violence. Some local bishops, like the Bishop of Worms and Archbishop of Mainz, tried to shelter Jews in their own residences – to little avail[30]. Bishop John of Speyer managed to save some by arresting would-be rioters. Even Pope Urban II, though far away, had never preached against the Jews; the official crusade was directed outwards at Muslims in the Holy Land. Yet the crusade’s spiritual fervor had unleashed uncontrollable passions. Medieval and modern historians have debated the causes of the 1096 massacres: greed for Jewish wealth, religious fanaticism, long-standing anti-Jewish prejudice, or some combination[35][36]. The Jewish chroniclers themselves saw it as a divine trial and cast the crusaders figuratively as cruel Romans or Amalekites, viewing their own slain communities as martyrs akin to the sacrifices of old[31].

By mid-1096, the main column of the People’s Crusade moved on, leaving a trail of devastation in the Rhineland. Peter the Hermit and his motley host – now perhaps 20,000–30,000 strong – crossed into Hungary, pressing eastward. Their journey was chaotic. Lacking discipline or adequate supplies, these enthusiasts resorted to scavenging and occasional plunder. Near Belgrade, a dispute over market prices led some crusaders to pillage local farms, inciting a skirmish with Hungarian troops. Still, Peter’s charisma kept most of them together until they reached the outskirts of Constantinople in July 1096[37].

Emperor Alexios I had expected bands of trained knights; instead he was confronted with this unruly multitude camped outside his capital’s walls. Contemporary Byzantine writer Anna Komnene records that Peter the Hermit personally met Alexios, a Greek-speaking monarch facing a barefoot holy man who claimed God’s mandate. The Emperor, wary of their uncontrollable nature, quickly ferried Peter’s horde across the Bosporus into Asia Minor to await the arrival of the real army of princes. Unfortunately, patience was not a virtue of the People’s Crusade. Against Alexios’s advice, these inexperienced pilgrims advanced heedlessly into Seljuk territory in early autumn 1096. The result was disastrous. Kilij Arslan, the Seljuk Sultan of Rûm, shadowed their movements and lured them into an ambush near Civetot (Kibotos) on October 21, 1096. There, Turkish mounted archers descended on the disorganized crusaders. Trapped and terrified, the peasant mob was annihilated – “decimated by the Turks of Rūm in a battle outside Civetot,” as one account dryly notes[37]. Peter the Hermit, fortunately in Constantinople at the time seeking supplies, survived; but most of his followers were slain or enslaved. Their bones would later be found bleaching on Anatolian hillsides.

Thus ended the People’s Crusade – in tragedy and cautionary lesson. As historian Thomas Asbridge observes, this early wave “was unruly and disorganized and was decimated… in October 1096”[26]. The main Princes’ Crusade, still gathering in Europe, learned of this debacle and steeled themselves to proceed with far greater discipline and planning. The road to Jerusalem would not be walked by sheer faith alone; it would demand steel, strategy, and pragmatism.

The stage was now set for the arrival of Europe’s princes and barons – the true military leaders of the First Crusade – who would attempt to succeed where the hapless peasants had failed. Ahead lay a journey of thousands of miles, across continents and cultures, toward the heart of the world’s faith – Jerusalem.

Princes and Emperors: The Crusader Army Gathers (1096–1097)

In stark contrast to the bedraggled bands of Peter the Hermit, the Princes’ Crusade comprised the great feudal lords of Latin Christendom and their well-armed retinues. Throughout the late summer and fall of 1096, these magnates departed their homelands in separate contingents, planning to converge at Constantinople – the gateway to Asia. Each lord brought his own followers, banners, and ambitions, forming what was less a single army than a coalition of armies loosely united by common faith and goal.

The roster of leaders read like a roll-call of Europe’s high nobility. From France came Hugh, Count of Vermandois (brother of the French King) and Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy (son of William the Conqueror). From Flanders and Lorraine came Robert II, Count of Flanders and Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine, accompanied by his brother Baldwin of Boulogne[38]. Southern Italy contributed a formidable Norman contingent led by Bohemond of Taranto, a giant of a man and seasoned warlord, along with his fiery nephew Tancred[19]. From Provence in southern France rode Raymond IV, Count of Toulouse – the oldest and perhaps richest of the crusade princes – together with Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy, whom Pope Urban had appointed as his spiritual legate for the crusade[39]. By various routes – some across the Alps, some by sea to Byzantine ports – these forces made their way toward Constantinople through late 1096 and early 1097.

The journey was arduous. Godfrey of Bouillon’s army trudged across Germany and Hungary, negotiating passage with wary local kings. In a winter storm at the Hungarian–Byzantine border, Godfrey’s camp nearly starved; at one point he had to send envoys to Emperor Alexios pleading for food markets. Other groups faced their own travails: Bohemond’s Normans, sailing from Italy, weathered Adriatic gales that wrecked a few ships; Hugh of Vermandois, arriving by sea at Durazzo, dramatically announced himself as “the brother of the King of Kings” – only to be promptly escorted under guard to Constantinople by the Byzantines, who took no chances with these assertive Latins.

By April 1097, the disparate columns of the crusader princes stood assembled outside the mighty walls of Constantinople, the imperial capital. The emperors of Byzantium had seen much in their city’s thousand-year history, but the sight now was astonishing: a vast encampment of Latin warriors, tens of thousands strong, ringing the suburbs. One contemporary estimated the combined host at over 70,000 souls, including perhaps 7,000–10,000 knights, though these figures are rough[38]. The Byzantine Princess Anna Komnene, in her chronicle The Alexiad, provides a fascinated (and somewhat alarmed) description of the crusaders: iron-clad Frankish knights with their long swords and rugged faces, Norman warriors of Italy famed for their cunning, Provencals and Lotharingians speaking strange tongues, priests carrying relics and chanting hymns. To Anna, this appeared as an unpredictable barbarian multitude camped at the Emperor’s doorstep.

Emperor Alexios I Komnenos faced a delicate challenge. He had appealed for Western help against the Turks, but the sheer scale and independence of this crusader host made him uneasy. Alexios’s goal was to direct these forces to his advantage – specifically, to recover lost Byzantine cities and fortresses in Anatolia – while ensuring they did not threaten his own realm. Thus, Alexios shrewdly sought to bind the crusader leaders by treaty. One by one, he invited each prince into Constantinople (while keeping their troops outside the walls) and persuaded them to swear an oath of fealty and restitution. The oath required that any former Byzantine territory (cities, lands) the crusaders might recapture from the Turks would be handed back to the Emperor’s control[40][41].

The Latin princes met this demand with mixed feelings. Some, like the devout Godfrey of Bouillon, acquiesced after negotiation – Godfrey was allowed to winter his army in Byzantine territory with supplies, in exchange for swearing allegiance. Others were more reluctant. Proud Bohemond of Taranto, who had once warred against Byzantium as a Norman invader, sniffed opportunity in these oaths. He complied, but likely with fingers crossed behind his back. Raymond of Toulouse flat-out refused to become Alexios’s liegeman, offering instead a watered-down promise of friendship – his pride as an independent sovereign would not bear vassalage. Ultimately, under diplomatic pressure (and some strategic gold distributions by Alexios), most leaders swore some form of oath[40][42]. This uneasy agreement set the tone for Byzantine–Latin relations: cooperation tempered by distrust. Emperor Alexios for his part assigned a seasoned general, Manuel Boutoumites, and his loyal adjutant Tatikios, to accompany the crusade as imperial representatives[43][44] – ostensibly to provide guidance and ensure the oath was honored.

There were immediate frictions. While awaiting all contingents, some Latin soldiers got into brawls with Byzantine locals; a prank that involved a peasant’s house being burned escalated into a skirmish until order was restored. Alexios, keen to hurry the crusaders along, shipped them swiftly across the Bosporus that spring. By May 1097, the entire crusader army had crossed from Europe into Asia Minor – leaving Constantinople behind and now standing on the soil of Anatolia, the very lands they had vowed to wrest from the Turks.

Yet even in departure, a shadow of mistrust lingered. One anecdote, possibly apocryphal, illustrates the tension: Bohemond allegedly remarked privately that if Alexios did not join the march in person, the oath was void. And indeed, the Emperor did not accompany the crusade in the field. He provided guides and a small Byzantine force to assist, but Alexios’s priority was securing cities as they fell. Some princes quietly questioned whether the Emperor might betray them or leave them in the lurch if fortunes waned. This seed of doubt would bear fruit at a critical moment later at Antioch.

For now, however, crusader and Byzantine objectives aligned in part: both wanted to defeat the Turks in Anatolia. The first target lay just ahead – the city of Nicaea, once a proud city of the Eastern Empire, now the capital of the Sultanate of Rûm under Kilij Arslan. The crusaders marched southeast with zeal, banners emblazoned with crosses snapping in the breeze, as spring flowers bloomed across Bithynia. They were about to face their first major test of arms – and to realize that this journey would be anything but a simple pilgrimage.

Byzantine–Latin Tensions: From the outset, cultural and political frictions simmered between the Western crusaders and their Byzantine hosts. The Greeks of Constantinople viewed the Latin Franks as rough-edged, headstrong, and potentially dangerous en masse. Emperor Alexios had brokered oaths to secure his claims, but he remained deeply suspicious of certain leaders – especially Bohemond, the cunning Norman who had besieged Byzantine lands in the past[45][46]. The crusaders, for their part, were often ignorant of Byzantine customs and perceived slights in Alexios’s cautious hospitality. Language barriers and differences in fighting style bred contempt: Anna Komnene sniffed at the Franks’ manners, while Latin knights grumbled that the “Greeks” were schemers unwilling to fight head-on. During the siege of Nicaea, the Byzantines secretly negotiated the city’s surrender to avoid a sack, robbing the crusaders of plunder – a move resented by the Latins as a betrayal (they had fought and bled for that victory)[40][46]. Later, at Antioch, Emperor Alexios’s failure to relieve the crusaders would shatter the remaining trust. The Great Schism of East and West (1054) had formally divided the churches, and now subtle mutual disdain persisted: the Latins called the Greeks effeminate or duplicitous; the Byzantines considered the Franks unruly barbarians. Still, necessity held the alliance together just enough to achieve the crusade’s early objectives. The fault lines, however, were plain – and would widen in years to come, eventually leading to open conflict in the later crusades. In 1097, these tensions remained an undercurrent, flaring occasionally but managed through Alexios’s diplomacy and the crusaders’ immediate need for Byzantine logistical support.

Siege of Nicaea, May–June 1097

On the rolling plains of Bithynia in early May 1097, the crusading host got its first glimpse of the walled city of Nicaea. The scene was imposing: Nicaea’s stout ramparts – three miles of stone walls studded with over a hundred towers – encircled the city, which glittered at the edge of a lake. Within lay the seat of Sultan Kilij Arslan, who ironically was absent on a campaign to the east, having underestimated this incursion by the Franks. The crusaders, eager to prove their mettle and win a swift victory, surrounded the city and commenced a siege on May 14, 1097[47][48].

The army divided into divisions around Nicaea’s perimeter: Duke Godfrey and the Normans from France took position on the northern and eastern sides; Count Raymond of Toulouse and Bishop Adhémar encamped to the south. The crusaders lacked heavy siege machinery at first, but their confidence was high. An initial assault on the formidable walls was attempted within days – enthusiasm overcoming prudence – but it was repelled by the Turkish garrison, and casualties were taken[49]. Realizing Nicaea would not fall to a simple rush, the crusaders settled into a blockade. They constructed siege weapons: a towering wooden siege tower began to take shape, along with battering rams and ladders[50]. However, one side of Nicaea – the western wall – abutted the expansive Askanian Lake, allowing the Turks to resupply the city by boat. To truly choke off the city, the crusaders needed naval support on the lake.

Here Emperor Alexios proved his worth. Responding to crusader requests, Alexios arranged for Byzantine ships to be hauled overland on logs and launched into Lake Askanian[49]. One morning in mid-June, Nicaea’s Turkish defenders awoke to see Byzantine war galleys suddenly sailing on the lake, blockading their last lifeline. The noose was tightened; morale inside the city plummeted. Sultan Kilij Arslan, rushing back with his field army, attempted a relief attack on May 21, but the crusaders’ armored cavalry charged out to meet him in pitched battle. Chroniclers say the sultan’s forces were caught off guard by the sheer number of knights – one account claims 20,000 crusaders sallied forth – and Kilij Arslan’s men were routed after hard fighting[51]. The Sultan himself barely escaped with a remnant of his troops, forced to abandon his capital to its fate.

Now hopeless, the Nicaean garrison secretly opened negotiations – not with the Franks, whom they feared would inflict slaughter, but with the Byzantines. Alexios’s general Boutoumites reached a deal for a peaceful surrender. On June 19, 1097, as the crusader army prepared a final grand assault using their newly built siege tower, they suddenly saw Greek standards flying from Nicaea’s walls. The city had capitulated to Alexios’s forces quietly in the predawn hours[52]. Byzantine troops swiftly ferried Turkish nobles and Kilij Arslan’s family out of the city to safety, per the surrender terms. When the crusaders realized what had happened, they were furious – they had been cheated of the glory of storming Nicaea and of the plunder that would have followed. “The Franks were greatly angered,” records one chronicler, “for the Emperor took possession of Nicaea and forbade them to sack it”[40][53]. Alexios did, however, placate them with gifts: each prince received gold, silks, and horses, and common soldiers were paid a small bonus. The Emperor’s oath was upheld – Nicaea was returned to Byzantine rule – but at the cost of resentment among the crusaders.

Despite the sour note, the victory at Nicaea boosted the crusaders’ confidence tremendously. The chronicler Fulcher of Chartres wrote that after Nicaea, the Franks began to realize that God truly favored their quest, seeing how quickly a powerful city had fallen[54]. It was a joint triumph of Frankish martial vigor and Byzantine strategy. The road into the heart of Anatolia now lay open.

In the aftermath, Sultan Kilij Arslan, humbled and enraged, withdrew eastward, determined to regroup and strike again. The crusaders tarried at Nicaea only a short time, organizing themselves for the long march ahead. They split into two marching columns for easier foraging: one led by Bohemond and Robert of Normandy, the other by Raymond of Toulouse and Godfrey, with a day’s distance between them. By late June 1097, the crusade marched southward under the punishing Anatolian summer sun. They would soon encounter Kilij Arslan’s vengeance – and one of the most famous open-field battles of the crusade.

Ambush and Victory: The Battle of Dorylaeum, July 1097

On the dawn of July 1, 1097, the forward column of the crusader army – led by Bohemond, Robert of Normandy, and their knights – was winding through a shallow valley near Dorylaeum in central Anatolia. It was high summer; the grass was dry and the air already shimmering with heat. Without warning, the sky seemed to darken with a hail of arrows. Kilij Arslan, having raised a coalition of Turkish horsemen (including his Seljuk allies and local Turcoman tribes), had sprung a classic steppe ambush. War cries of “Allahu Akbar” echoed from the hills as swift Turkish cavalry archers encircled the crusaders, peppering them with arrows from all sides.

Bohemond’s advance contingent was caught off-guard, many knights not yet in armor. Panic rippled through the camp as non-combatants – women, camp followers, and pilgrims – screamed and scrambled for cover behind wagons. Bohemond, however, acted fast. With a booming voice, he ordered the knights to form a defensive circle, placing the women, priests, and baggage in the center. Shield to shield, the Frankish knights and infantry created a bristling wall of spears. The Turks, masters of mobility, circled like vultures, feinting attacks and loosing arrows that claimed unhorsed knights and unarmored footmen in deadly numbers. A crusader eyewitness described the enemy as “countless Turks, swift as birds, riding round us shooting without ceasing”[55]. The Franks’ heavy armor protected them to a degree, but the sun grew sweltering and the arrow barrage was incessant. Horses whinnied in pain. Some crusaders, impetuous, attempted counter-charges only to be lured away and cut down. It was a test of endurance and discipline.

Bohemond and Robert, fighting on foot among their men, rallied any who faltered: “Stand fast for Christ!” they cried. Bishop Adhémar, who was with the rear column, was not yet on the field; but priests in the camp held aloft relics and chanted prayers to stiffen morale. Still, by mid-morning the situation was dire – the Normans’ circle was contracting under the relentless pressure.

At last, a horn blast sounded from the west. Arriving at forced-march pace, the second crusader column under Godfrey, Raymond, and Adhémar had heard the commotion and raced to the rescue. They fell upon the flank of Kilij Arslan’s army with lances couched. The Turkic archers, now assailed by fresh mail-clad knights, found their advantage slipping. Soon, Raymond of Toulouse led a contingent of heavy cavalry in a thunderous charge that smashed into the Turkish lines, while Godfrey’s men drove the Turks from another quarter. The balance tipped. Fearing encirclement themselves now, the Turkish riders began to waver.

Seeing the moment, Bohemond bellowed for his knights to mount up (many had kept horses in the camp’s center for just this opportunity). With a great cry to Saint George, the crusader princes launched a unified counterattack. Frankish knights – iron-clad and wielding lances and swords – thundered out in all directions. The shocked Turkish lines broke. Kilij Arslan himself narrowly escaped once again, as his warriors scattered into the plains. The Battle of Dorylaeum ended in a resounding crusader victory. One Latin chronicler exulted that “the Turks, seeing this, recognized the strength of the Franks and fled in terror”[51][56]. It was a hard-fought fight: crusader casualties may have been substantial, but the result proved that even the feared Seljuk horse-archers could be beaten by cooperation and courage.

The victory at Dorylaeum on July 1, 1097, was pivotal. It opened the road across Anatolia; more importantly, it gave the crusaders unshakable confidence. They had survived a deadly ambush by using discipline and the timely unity of their divided forces. “On that day,” wrote chronicler Raymond of Aguilers, “the Lord multiplied His mercy to us. The Turks fled before our Frankish arms as chaff before the wind” (though in truth it was also raw military grit and numbers that carried the day).

The Crusaders were now masters of northwestern Anatolia. Kilij Arslan, wounded in pride and body, retreated deeper into the Anatolian steppe, abandoning the fertile western regions to the invaders. Never again would the Sultan muster enough strength to seriously threaten the crusader host on its march. The path to Syria beckoned – though what lay ahead was an arduous trek through the vast, harsh heartland of Asia Minor, a land of scorching plains and barren mountains where an even more implacable foe awaited: hunger and thirst.

Across Anatolia: Hunger, Death, and Diplomacy (Summer–Fall 1097)

With the Seljuk forces in Anatolia temporarily subdued, the crusading host set out across the Anatolian plateau in July 1097. This march would become a nightmare of logistics. Anatolia in midsummer offered little food or water. As the crusaders moved away from the well-populated western regions into the sparsely settled interior, they found towns and villages mostly abandoned or burnt (scorched by retreating Turks) and wells poisoned or dry[53][57]. Under the merciless sun, men and horses alike suffered terribly. Chroniclers speak of waterless days where knights dismounted and trudged alongside their mounts to spare them; of rationing moldy grain and slaughtering the last pack animals for meat. The anonymous author of the Gesta Francorum records that many crusaders fell ill from the intense heat and lack of clean water, with some perishing by the roadside. “Our men were so tormented by thirst that they drank the foul water from muddy puddles, and many died” – such is the picture painted in letters home.

For the rank-and-file, it was a time of trial and despair. One imagines a young foot-soldier from Normandy, crusted in sweat and dust, trudging step after step over bleached earth, lips cracked and eyes sunken, murmuring prayers for rain. Horses died in droves – some knights lost all but a few of their steeds, forcing noblemen to ride oxen or walk, an almost unthinkable humiliation but one they endured for the cause. By August, the crusader army had shrunk due to attrition; but their spirit, remarkably, did not break. “The Lord is testing us,” Bishop Adhémar preached, “as He tested Israel in the desert. Endure, for beyond this wilderness lies the land of milk and honey.” Such biblical analogies, repeated often by clergy, gave the suffering a spiritual meaning – the crusaders likened themselves to the Israelites of Exodus, crossing a wasteland toward the promised holy city.

The march was not without incident. In mid-August, near the town of Iconium (modern Konya), a rear column led by Tancred and some foragers was set upon by a band of Turkish irregulars. The Turks harassed stragglers and attempted to seize baggage, but Tancred’s men – hardened by Dorylaeum – beat them off. It was a minor skirmish, but it kept the army alert. Bohemond organized stronger vanguards and rearguards to protect the non-combatants, and the crusaders took to marching in tighter formation to prevent ambushes.

As the army wound its way south-eastward, it also began to split for strategic objectives. In September 1097, Baldwin of Boulogne (Godfrey’s younger brother) and Tancred broke off from the main force with small contingents. Their aim was to secure the fertile Taurus foothills of Cilicia, a region dotted with Armenian Christian towns, and perhaps to seek their own fortunes. Tancred seized several towns (like Tarsus and Adana) in quick strikes, and Baldwin, after a brief quarrel with Tancred over possession of Tarsus, journeyed on eastward. By early October, Baldwin received an invitation from an Armenian lord in the city of Edessa beyond the Euphrates. Seeing an opportunity to carve out his own domain, Baldwin headed north toward Edessa – thus beginning a side chapter that would culminate in the establishment of the first crusader state, the County of Edessa, in March 1098. (Baldwin would be adopted as heir by the Armenian ruler Thoros and soon take power in Edessa, creating a valuable Christian ally and resource base for the crusade)[58][59]. But Baldwin’s detachment also meant the main army lost one of its bold leaders and a few hundred knights at a critical juncture.

By October 1097, the core crusader army – now under the joint guidance of Bohemond, Godfrey, Raymond, and Adhémar – approached the edges of Syria. Before them lay the great walled city of Antioch, the key to entering the Holy Land. Weary from the march and reduced in numbers (perhaps around 30-40,000 remaining, including non-combatants), the Franks gazed upon Antioch’s towering fortifications with awe and trepidation. Antioch was no ordinary city: its massive walls, perched on steep hills, enclosed a metropolis second only to Constantinople in grandeur. It was said to be impregnable – “so well fortified that it need not fear attack by any man,” one crusade chaplain noted, “even if all mankind came against it”[60]. Yet Antioch had to be taken; the road to Jerusalem ran through its gates. The campaign’s most grueling siege was about to begin, one that would stretch the crusaders’ endurance and unity to the breaking point, and witness both miracles and horrors that would pass into legend.

As the crusaders made camp before Antioch’s walls in late October, they may have reflected how far they had come since the fields of Clermont. They had endured thirst and hunger, confronted the finest cavalry of Islam and prevailed, navigated alliances and tensions with Byzantium, and traversed hostile wastes – all under the banner of the Cross. Their trials, however, were only beginning. The siege of Antioch would be the crucible of the First Crusade, a deadly epic in its own right, complete with intrigue, starvation, cannibalism, spiritual visions, and the most improbable reversal of fortune. The outcome at Antioch would determine the fate of the entire enterprise.

The Siege of Antioch: Stalemate and Starvation (Oct 1097–May 1098)

When the crusaders first encircled Antioch on October 21, 1097, awe mingled with resolve. Antioch’s formidable circuit of walls – built on high rocky slopes and bristling with over 400 towers – presented a daunting challenge[61][60]. The Orontes River flowed past the city, and a deep moat and iron gates guarded every approach. Inside was a garrison under Yaghi-Siyan, the Seljuk Turkish governor, determined to hold the city for Islam. Given Antioch’s strength, the crusader commanders knew a direct assault would be folly. Instead, they settled into a blockade, hoping to starve the city out[62].

As the siege began, the Franks divided their forces to cover Antioch’s gates and prevent sallies. Bohemond camped before the St. Paul’s Gate on the north; next to him were Godfrey and the Lorrainers by the Dog Gate; Raymond and Adhémar stationed themselves to the south near the Bridge Gate by the Orontes[63][64]. Even so, they could not completely surround the sprawling city – especially its eastern side abutting steep mountains. This allowed some communication and supply trickle for the besieged, and it meant the crusaders had to remain vigilant against sorties.

October turned to November, and the first test came quickly. Antioch’s defenders initially stayed behind their walls, watching the Franks warily. But as supplies in the countryside were seized by the crusaders, Yaghi-Siyan sought to harass them. Turkish cavalry began launching sorties against foraging parties[65]. One early raid nearly overran Adhémar’s camp by the river; only a hasty defense and collapsing a small bridge thwarted the Turks[66]. The crusaders responded by constructing improvised forts and barricades at key points – such as a fort named Malregard (“Evil Look”) built on a hill by Bohemond’s men to cover the north side[67] – to hem in the city’s garrison and block its gates.

As winter set in, a more dire enemy struck: famine. The fertile plains around Antioch were soon exhausted by the feeding of tens of thousands of mouths. Long supply lines back to the coast were unreliable and subject to Turkish attack. By December 1097, the crusaders were suffering acute shortages. An observer noted grimly, “our men stripped the area clean. With nothing left nearby, foraging parties had to search farther out, and many were cut off and killed”[66][68]. The rains of winter turned the camp to mud; disease festered. Horses died by the hundreds from hunger and exposure – the once-proud knights of Europe were reduced to eating horseflesh. One chronicler admits that some even ate the leather of their own belts and shoes after boiling them to soften the hide.

Crusaders began to desert in despair. Most infamously, on January 2, 1098, Stephen of Blois – one of the highest-ranking lords and a son-in-law of William the Conqueror – slipped away under cover of night with a small retinue, intending to return home. Morale wavered. Around the same time, the Byzantine envoy Tatikios, who had been advising the crusaders, left the camp (ostensibly to seek help from Alexios). Bohemond, ever cunning, seized on Tatikios’s departure to sow doubt: he claimed the Greek had fled out of cowardice or worse, abandoning them[46]. This, Bohemond argued to the other leaders, nullified their oath to return Antioch to the Emperor – subtly laying groundwork for his own ambitions on the city.

Meanwhile, Yaghi-Siyan was not idle. He had dispatched pleas for relief to Muslim rulers in Mosul, Aleppo, Damascus. One by one, Turkish armies attempted to come to Antioch’s aid: in December, Duqaq of Damascus approached with an army. Bohemond and Robert of Flanders led a detachment to intercept them at the Battle of al-Bara (also called the Battle of the Lake or of Antioch) and, in fierce fighting, managed to repel Duqaq’s force[69]. In February 1098, Ridwan of Aleppo tried again, marching a large army toward Antioch. The crusaders, despite their weakened state, mustered and surprised Ridwan’s troops in the hills south of the city, winning a sharp skirmish at a place called Harim. These victories against relief armies boosted spirits and yielded desperately needed supplies. But they could not end the hunger.

By early spring 1098, the siege had dragged on for over half a year, with no end in sight. The crusaders were caught in a deadly stalemate: they encircled Antioch, but Antioch encircled them as well, trapping them in a hostile land. Chronicler Fulcher of Chartres writes of this period: “Our strength daily withered from want. Many of our men did perish of hunger; others, losing hope, stole away to return home.” Some resorted to improbable food: boiled thistles, leaves, even “eating of things unclean.” There were whispers of cannibalism in the darkest hours – though most sources reserve that horror for later at Ma’arra, one near-contemporary account (the Chanson d’Antioche, albeit semi-legendary) claims that some impoverished camp followers called Tafurs might have roasted strips of fallen enemy flesh outside Antioch’s walls, to the defenders’ disgust[70][71]. While this is not confirmed by eyewitnesses at Antioch, it reflects how extreme the conditions had become. (Notably, the main firsthand chronicles – Gesta Francorum and Raymond of Aguilers – do not mention cannibalism at Antioch, though later imaginative works do[72].)

In these bleak moments, religion provided solace and unity. Priests held processions around the camp; the crusaders collectively confessed sins and prayed for deliverance. According to Raymond of Aguilers, a portent appeared: one evening flames were seen flickering on the slopes of Mount Silpius above Antioch – many took it as a sign of St. George and an angelic host watching over them[73]. Whether hallucination or devout fancy, such visions galvanized the suffering Franks to persevere.

As spring bloomed in 1098, the situation changed subtly. The land grew green again, renewing forage, and fleets from the Italian city-states (Genoa, Pisa) began to arrive at the port of St. Simeon near Antioch with supplies[74]. Caravans from the newly friendly Armenians of Edessa (thanks to Baldwin’s successes) also brought food. The crusaders were far from comfortable, but they were no longer in imminent danger of starving en masse. Their numbers were reduced but still formidable.

It was at this juncture, with the siege grinding on and new rumors of a massive relief army from Mosul on the way, that Bohemond of Taranto proposed a bold plan – one that would hinge on stealth and treachery rather than brute force. Unbeknownst to most of the army, Bohemond had been corresponding secretly with a defender inside Antioch. This was a certain Firouz, an Armenian (or possibly Syrian) captain of one of Antioch’s towers, who had perhaps grown discontented under Yaghi-Siyan’s rule. The Gesta Francorum refers to him cryptically as a “renegade Armenian” who commanded tower posts[75]. Bohemond, skilled in intrigue, promised Firouz riches and honor, and reportedly even offered to make him a lord, if he would betray his section of the wall[76]. Firouz, swayed by either greed or resentment (some sources suggest Yaghi-Siyan had mistreated him), agreed.

Bohemond then confronted the other crusade leaders: he asserted that through “his own devices” he could deliver the city, but in return he must be granted rule of Antioch. With Emperor Alexios absent and the oath voided by Greek non-assistance (so Bohemond argued), he wanted the prize for himself[77][78]. After initial resistance – notably from Raymond of Toulouse who still respected the oath – desperation and pragmatism won out. They consented: if Bohemond’s stratagem succeeded, Antioch would be his. The stage was set for one of the most dramatic coups-de-main in medieval history.

Antioch’s Night of Treachery: Bohemond’s Daring Climb (June 1098)

It was a moonless night – June 2, 1098. A select band of crusaders led by Bohemond moved silently through the darkness to the base of Antioch’s northeastern wall. Towering above them loomed the Tower of the Two Sisters, manned by none other than Firouz. Bohemond had chosen a small group of his bravest Normans and a few French knights; too many would attract notice. They carried simple scaling ladders, muffling any clank of metal. Inside the city, Firouz waited anxiously, having drugged or dismissed the most loyal guards in his tower.

According to the Gesta Francorum, Bohemond gave a predetermined signal – perhaps a torch flash or a low whistle – and Firouz secured ropes and ladders from his side[75]. One by one, Bohemond’s men ascended the ladder in nail-biting silence. In imagined dramatic whispers: Bohemond urges caution; the first knight reaches the battlement and quietly dispatches a dozing guard. They reach down and help the next man up. Soon, dozens of crusaders stand atop the wall, their breath misting in the cool night air, hearts pounding.

Suddenly, an alarm – a guard farther along has spotted the intruders. Bohemond decides it’s now or never. With a fierce shout of “Deus vult!” he and his men fall upon the nearby sentries, stabbing by lantern-light. The alarm bell begins clanging, but too late: Bohemond’s contingent fights its way to the nearest gate (the Gate of St. George) and slays the gatekeepers before they can drop the portcullis. As dawn’s first light touches the horizon, the Gate of St. George swings open and the bulk of the crusader army – which had been waiting in battle order outside – floods into Antioch.

The suddenness of the breach sends Antioch’s defenders into panic. Many still thought their walls secure and wake to find Franks rampaging through the streets. Yaghi-Siyan, the governor, flees in terror out a postern gate with his bodyguard (he would later be caught and killed by local Christians). The crusaders, elated and vengeful after months of hardship, exact a bloody revenge. They fan out, hunting any resisting Turkish soldiers. The Gesta Francorum’s anonymous writer – clearly jubilant – wrote, “We entered the city wonderfully (in mirabili modo), and our men were killing and slaying, even up to the Temple of Solomon,” inadvertently misnaming the local mosque[79]. He reports that some Turkish garrison troops “leapt from the walls in desperation” to their deaths.

Raymond of Aguilers likewise describes how the Franks “with God’s help” took Antioch and indulged in righteous fury: Muslim inhabitants were cut down, some sought sanctuary in mosques only to be slaughtered. While not as wholesale as Jerusalem’s later massacre, the fall of Antioch was brutal. By mid-morning of June 3, 1098, the Christian cross was raised atop Antioch’s citadel. Against all odds, the crusaders had captured the great city – a feat so improbable some would later attribute it solely to divine providence[80]. Indeed, various accounts differ on the credit: the Gesta Francorum lauds Bohemond’s cunning and bribery of Firouz[75]; others like Guibert of Nogent and later retellings emphasize miraculous aid, downplaying the greed element of Firouz’s betrayal in favor of God’s will[80]. But whichever interpretation, the result was the same: Antioch, the “Cradle of Christianity,” was in Frankish hands – or rather, Bohemond’s hands, for he now claimed it as his principality.

Yet triumph would turn to crisis almost immediately. The crusaders held the city, but the citadel – a fortress on a high crag – remained in Turkish control, its commander refusing to yield. Worse, the very next day, the long-awaited Muslim relief army arrived: Kerbogha, the powerful Atabeg of Mosul, leading a coalition of tens of thousands, appeared and began besieging the now crusader-held Antioch. In a reversal of fortunes, the besiegers became the besieged.

Bohemond and his men barely had time to catch their breath or savor victory. Suddenly they were trapped inside Antioch’s walls, with Kerbogha’s vast host encircling them outside and a hostile citadel garrison still threatening from within. The crusaders found themselves in a truly desperate predicament – exhausted from the siege, vastly outnumbered, short on supplies once more, and now defending shattered walls they had only just breached. As one chronicler put it, “Our situation was turned upside down: from hunters we became the hunted, and nowhere could we escape”[81].

This dire situation in June 1098 set the stage for one of the most controversial and spiritually charged episodes of the First Crusade: the miracle (or fraud) of the Holy Lance, which would rally the crusaders for a final do-or-die confrontation with Kerbogha’s army.

Source Lens – The Fall of Antioch: Multiple firsthand accounts documented Antioch’s capture, each with its own bias. The anonymous Gesta Francorum (likely written by a Norman in Bohemond’s retinue) emphasizes Bohemond’s heroism and the pragmatic deal with Firouz – it praises the “unlikely pact with a renegade Armenian” whereby Bohemond convinced him “with promises of honor and riches” to aid the crusaders[75]. In this telling, human initiative (and bribery) are foregrounded. By contrast, Raymond d’Aguilers (a Provençal chaplain) writing for Raymond of Toulouse’s faction, gives a somewhat different spin: he acknowledges Bohemond’s role but downplays the monetary bribe, instead stressing divine guidance. Later writers like Guibert of Nogent and Robert the Monk, composing histories for French audiences, further “theologized” the event, suggesting that God’s providence opened Antioch as much as Bohemond’s cunning did[80]. These variations reveal each author’s agenda – Norman sources glorify Bohemond, clerical authors stress miracles. Even Muslim chroniclers mention the betrayal: Ibn al-Athir, writing in the 13th century, notes that Antioch fell “by treachery” and laments the slaughter that followed[82][83]. Notably, contemporaries were astounded that mighty Antioch fell at all. Later legend embellished that the crusaders were aided by heavenly knights on the walls. But scrutiny of the earliest reports shows the mundane reality: strategic bribery, a nighttime climb, and the brutal efficiency of men who turned a city guard to their cause. The truth was dramatic enough without embroidery – yet medieval minds ever sought the hand of God amid the deeds of men.

Ordeal and Revelation: The Holy Lance of Antioch (June 1098)

Pinned inside Antioch by Kerbogha’s forces, the crusaders entered their darkest hours. Through early June 1098, starvation again reared its head. Kerbogha’s siege lines cut off any hope of outside supplies. Each day the Turkish coalition – armies from Mosul, Aleppo, Persia, even a contingent from the Fatimid Egyptians – tightened their stranglehold. Kerbogha, a stern and seasoned general, was in no rush; he meant to starve the Franks into surrender.

Within the city walls, despair threatened to overwhelm the crusaders. They had only a few weeks prior endured famine; now their situation seemed nearly hopeless. Chronicler Raymond of Aguilers admits morale plummeted: “Many of our men wavered in faith… Some even spoke of negotiating with the Turks.” Dismay spread also due to astral omens – a comet blazed in the night sky, which some took as a bad portent.

It was at this nadir that a Provencal visionary named Peter Bartholomew came forward with an astonishing claim. Peter was a lowly chaplain in Count Raymond’s contingent. He reported that St. Andrew the Apostle had appeared to him in a series of visions, revealing the location of nothing less than the Holy Lance – the very spear that pierced Christ’s side at the Crucifixion – buried beneath the floor of Antioch’s Cathedral of St. Peter. This relic, St. Andrew supposedly said, was meant to be found by the crusaders to assure them of divine favor and lead them to victory[84][85].

At first, skepticism reigned. Bishop Adhémar (the Papal legate) was cautious, suspecting perhaps a fraud or hallucination. But as days passed with no other hope in sight, Raymond of Toulouse and others warmed to the idea. On June 14, 1098, a group of crusaders – twelve men plus Peter Bartholomew – began to excavate the flagged floor of St. Peter’s Cathedral within Antioch[84]. They toiled for hours in the stifling heat, digging through dirt and rubble. By some accounts, nothing appeared by evening and many grew doubtful. Peter Bartholomew then leapt into the pit nearly naked and furiously continued digging. According to the Gesta Francorum, mirabile dictu, Peter suddenly exulted and pulled forth an iron spearhead from the earth[86][87]. A cry of jubilation arose: “The Holy Lance is found!”

Pandemonium mixed with euphoria seized the crusader camp. Many believed wholeheartedly that this was the very lance of Longinus, a relic of unimaginable power. Raymond of Aguilers (an eyewitness fervent believer) attests that upon its discovery, “the entire city, full of joy, melted into tears” and that the morale soared knowing God had sent them a sign[88][89]. Even doubters like Adhémar decided it was prudent to accept the relic for the sake of unity and morale – though Adhémar privately remained skeptical and later told some that he suspected it a fake planted for psychological boost.

The effect, real or placebo, was dramatic. With the “Holy Lance” borne on high by Raymond’s chaplain, the starving and outnumbered crusaders now prepared to gamble everything on a single battle outside the walls. Bohemond and the princes organized the forces into divisions for a sortie. On June 28, 1098, they confessed their sins, fasted (not that they had much to eat anyway), and made one final procession around the interior of Antioch’s walls chanting. The Holy Lance was carried as a standard, drawing awe from the men.

Contested Miracle – The Holy Lance: The authenticity of the Holy Lance of Antioch was hotly debated even at the time. The Gesta Francorum reports the digging and finding of a lance head straightforwardly, but one can detect a hint of skepticism: it notes that Peter Bartholomew conveniently found it after others failed[84][87]. Raymond of Aguilers, who was Peter’s ardent supporter, describes the visions in detail and took the discovery as a sign of divine intervention[89]. But others were unconvinced. Bishop Adhémar of Le Puy himself did not publicly deny the Lance, but according to later chronicler William of Tyre, Adhémar confided that he believed Peter had manufactured the relic (perhaps by using a lance head from local stock)[89][90]. Bohemond and the Norman contingent gave the Lance scant regard – unsurprisingly, since it was discovered under the auspices of their rival Count Raymond. In effect, factions formed: the Provençals saw the Lance as a holy talisman, the Normans remained doubtful. The lance’s alleged power was “proven” by the subsequent victory over Kerbogha, in believers’ eyes, but the controversy did not end. Months later, in early 1099, Peter Bartholomew, under pressure to prove his credibility, undertook a trial by fire – walking through flames with the Lance – and suffered fatal burns[91][92]. This grim outcome discredited the Lance in many minds. Modern historians likewise conclude the Lance was likely a “pious fraud” – a manufactured relic to inspire the army[92][93]. Yet, whether true or not, at the pivotal moment it functioned as needed: a psychological weapon that gave the crusaders unshakeable conviction. The divergent source accounts (eyewitness vs. later, Norman vs. Provencal) provide a clear lens on how propaganda and faith intertwined during the crusade’s most desperate hours.

Triumph at Antioch: The Battle Against Kerbogha (June 1098)

Buoyed by the discovery of the Holy Lance, the half-starved crusaders resolved to face Kerbogha’s vast army in open battle. It was a decision of astonishing audacity – to sortie out from the safety of Antioch’s walls and attack an enemy perhaps twice or three times their number. But morale and faith can tip scales as much as swords. As Raymond of Aguilers put it, “We feared neither death nor numbers, for we carried with us the Lance which had pierced Our Lord. How could we not prevail?”[89][94].

On June 28, 1098, the crusaders formed up in battle order inside the city gates at dawn. Bohemond took overall command of tactics. They divided into four divisions: one led by Bohemond, one by Godfrey of Bouillon, one by Raymond of Toulouse, and one by Bishop Adhémar (carrying the relic). The sun climbed and a hot wind blew dust across the plain as Kerbogha’s coalition – which included contingents from Mosul, Persia, Damascus, and beyond – assembled outside to meet them.

Bohemond signaled and the gates of Antioch burst open. Trumpets blared Christus vincit! as the crusader banners streamed out: the red cross of Toulouse, the golden fleur-de-lis of Normandy, the black eagle of Lombardy. Kerbogha, somewhat caught off guard by the sudden aggression of the Franks, hurried to deploy his cavalry. The battlefield stretched between the city and the Orontes River – a flat expanse ideal for the Turks’ mounted archery, but also giving room for Frankish cavalry charges.

The battle that ensued was ferocious. Kerbogha initially tried his classic tactics: flights of Turkish arrows showered the crusader ranks as mounted archers wheeled and feigned retreats. But unlike at Dorylaeum, this time the crusaders did not break formation. They advanced steadily in well-disciplined turmae (squadrons), shields up, voices singing hymns. Adhémar allegedly rode with the Holy Lance near the front, boosting morale. According to various crusader sources – and here some legendary embellishment likely creeps in – at the height of battle a vision of saints on white horses was seen charging alongside the Frankish host[73]. Raymond d’Aguilers claims that warriors in dazzling white, whom the crusaders took to be St. George, St. Maurice, and St. Demetrius, descended from the hills to smite the Turks’ flank[95]. Whether literal or metaphorical, this vision exemplified the crusaders’ utter conviction that God fought for them.

More tangibly, divisions in the Muslim coalition began to surface. Kerbogha was a domineering figure, and rival emirs in his camp (especially Ridwan’s Aleppans and Duqaq’s Damascenes) disliked him. As the crusaders pressed an attack on Kerbogha’s left wing, some of his allies hesitated or even withdrew, unwilling to shed blood for his glory[93][96]. A panic then took hold. Seeing segments of their line collapsing, the entire Turkish host suddenly gave way. “By the grace of God, the enemy was scattered to the winds,” records Fulcher, though he himself was not present[97][98]. Kerbogha, realizing the day was lost, fled the field – his great army disintegrating in a rout.

The crusaders, incredulous and ecstatic, slaughtered or chased the fleeing foe for miles. The camp of Kerbogha yielded unimaginable spoils: horses, food stores, tents, gold and weapons – enough to replenish the crusaders’ depleted resources many times over. One eyewitness letter claims “if you had been there, you would have seen our men’s feet colored to the ankles with the blood of the enemy” in vengeance[99]. (This image of blood-soaked victory echoes a common motif; Fulcher later uses similar language for Jerusalem[99], emphasizing the symbolic triumph.)

When the weary Franks returned to Antioch that evening, the mood was one of stunned deliverance. Just a week prior they were contemplating defeat; now they had utterly vanquished the mightiest Muslim force yet encountered. The Holy Lance was hailed as instrumental – “Truly,” wrote Raymond of Aguilers, “the Lord had given us this sign so that we should not doubt His aid. By the Lance we conquered”[89][94]. Others credited Bohemond’s generalship and the martial prowess of the knights, downplaying the relic. But all agreed it was a miraculous victory.

The Siege of Antioch, a saga of nearly eight months, thus ended in double triumph: the city taken and the relief army smashed. Out of the crucible emerged new realities. Bohemond of Taranto now was lord of Antioch – in practice if not unanimously acknowledged, since he simply took possession as negotiated (to Raymond’s chagrin). The once united crusader army began to fracture along princely ambitions here. Adhémar of Le Puy, the spiritual linchpin, unfortunately took ill (probably typhus) and died shortly after Antioch’s victory, depriving the crusade of a unifying moderate voice. His death also left unresolved the status of the Holy Lance – which he had doubted – and soon disputes over its authenticity would sow division between Raymond (a believer) and Bohemond (a skeptic, and political rival).

For now, however, midsummer 1098 was a time of celebration and recuperation. The crusaders tarried in the lush orchards and fine houses of Antioch for months, resting, rearming, and debating their next move: the ultimate goal, Jerusalem, still lay far to the south. Many rank-and-file crusaders grew impatient, grumbling: “We tarry too long. Is not Jerusalem the goal of our pilgrimage?” But their leaders had to consolidate positions, especially Bohemond who prioritized securing Antioch for himself. It was agreed that once the winter passed, by early 1099 the host would finally march south into Palestine.

As the autumn of 1098 arrived, however, one more gruesome chapter unfolded – a stark reminder of the human toll of this enterprise. In the city of Ma‘arrat al-Numan, a few weeks march south of Antioch, the crusaders would commit an atrocity so shocking that it echoed in infamy for centuries: cannibalism.

Descent into Hunger: Ma‘arra and the Cannibals (Dec 1098)

By late 1098, after months of delay and political wrangling in Antioch, a portion of the crusader army under Count Raymond of Toulouse finally began advancing southward through Syria. Many crusaders were eager to push on toward Jerusalem, but internal disputes – particularly between Raymond and Bohemond – had splintered the force. Bohemond stayed behind in Antioch to secure his new principality. So it fell to Raymond (joined by other leaders like Robert of Flanders and Tancred, who oscillated between camps) to carry the banner forward.

In November 1098, Raymond’s host arrived at the bustling town of Ma‘arrat al-Numan in northern Syria. Ma‘arra was a walled settlement of moderate size, populated largely by Muslims (with a small Christian minority). The town refused the crusaders’ demand for surrender, so Raymond and his lieutenants settled in for a siege. What should have been a brief operation dragged into weeks – Ma‘arra’s militia put up stubborn resistance from the walls, and the crusaders, short of heavy siege gear, resorted to digging beneath the walls and constructing siege towers.

It was during this siege that the specter of hunger – ever the crusaders’ nemesis – resurfaced with a vengeance. The surrounding countryside was dry and already foraged out by earlier passing armies. The weather turned cold as December set in, and food supplies ran low. The anonymous author of the Gesta Francorum notes simply that the crusaders were “suffering unbearable hunger” at Ma‘arra[100][101]. Chronicler Ralph of Caen (writing a bit later, based on eyewitness accounts) provides lurid details: “A lack of food compelled them to make a meal of human flesh,” he writes – alleging that “adults were put in the pot to boil and children were skewered on spits and roasted”[102][103]. He claims he heard this “from the very perpetrators of this shame”[104]. This ghastly testimony is seconded by the cleric Albert of Aachen, who writes that in the face of extreme famine, “the Christians… did not shrink from eating the bodies of the Saracens they had killed, cooking them in fire, not only the Saracens but also dogs”[105][106] – implying that eating canines was considered even more shocking than eating Muslims.

On December 12, 1098, Ma‘arra’s defenses were finally breached. Crusader forces stormed into the town. A massacre ensued, as often happened when a city had resisted: according to one source, possibly 10,000 inhabitants were killed (though that number may be inflated)[99]. “They killed all the Saracens and pillaged everything,” records the Gesta Francorum laconically of Ma‘arra’s fall[107][108]. It was in the aftermath, as the victorious crusaders discovered pitifully meager stores of grain in town, that the most desperate among them turned to cannibalism. The Christian poor – often called Tafurs – who followed the army and had endured the worst hunger, began scavenging not just for grain or livestock (there were little), but for flesh. Dead or captured Muslim corpses became, horrifically, a source of sustenance. The Chanson d’Antioche (a later poetic chronicle) vividly describes these Tafurs roasting Saracen bodies on spits outside the walls to terrorize the enemy[109][110]. Whether that specific scenario occurred at Antioch or Ma‘arra is blurred in legend, but multiple firsthand chronicles confirm cannibalism at Ma‘arra.

The Gesta Francorum itself, the earliest source, states succinctly: “Because of the excessive hunger, some cut the flesh of the dead Turks into slices and ate it, loathing to do so”[88][111]. This single line – matter-of-fact and horrifying – is echoed in various forms by other writers. Fulcher of Chartres, though he was not present, later wrote that “in Ma’arra our people were so tormented by lack of food that they savagely filled their mouths with the bodies of Saracens, cut into pieces and cooked”[112][113]. The Mainz Anonymous (a Jewish chronicler) even heard reports that “they traded human flesh in the market as if it were pork.” Modern historian Thomas Asbridge notes that this cannibalism became “among the most infamous of all atrocities perpetrated by the First Crusaders,” yet paradoxically it terrified the Muslim world to hear these rumors, giving the Franks a fearsome reputation that sometimes led enemy garrisons to capitulate without a fight[114][115].

Inside Ma‘arra, once the initial orgy of killing subsided, discipline broke down. The ordinary crusaders clamored for the march to continue to Jerusalem. But Count Raymond and other lords delayed, quarreling over control of the town and surrounding areas. Frustration grew. Finally, in early January 1099, to quell unrest, Raymond of Toulouse symbolically dismantled a section of Ma‘arra’s walls – an act indicating he wouldn’t garrison it permanently – and agreed to move on. By now, the gruesome events at Ma‘arra had further demoralized some and radicalized others. One crusader wrote in a letter home around this time: “In Ma’arra, our troops boiled pagan adults in cooking-pots; they impaled children on spits and devoured them grilled.”[116][117] This was sent as both a shock and a boast – a grisly message of the Franks’ determination.

Later commentators, both Christian and Muslim, would struggle to explain or justify Ma‘arra. Some Latin writers blamed a subset of poor fanatics (the Tafurs) to exonerate the nobility[109][118]. Muslim chroniclers like Ibn al-Athir and Ibn al-Qalanisi recorded the incident with horror, using it to underscore the Franks’ barbarity beyond normal warfare[119][93]. Modern historians like Jay Rubenstein interpret it as partly psychological warfare – suggesting that at least some of the cannibalism was done openly to frighten the enemy, not just secretly from hunger[109][118]. Indeed, news of Ma‘arra’s horrors spread quickly. One contemporary Muslim poet lamented, “Had you seen the Franks, your heart would have been consumed by fear. They use our flesh as food…”

Whatever the motives or extents, the cannibalism at Ma‘arra marked the moral nadir of the First Crusade. It remains a chilling testament to the desperation and savagery that holy war could entail. Yet, ironically, it also played into the crusaders’ favor by instilling terrible fear in many Muslim towns ahead. Historian Amin Maalouf notes that after Ma‘arra, “reports and rumors of their brutality… convinced many Muslim commanders that the Franks were bloodthirsty barbarians who could not be resisted”[96][120]. Many cities preferred to negotiate or surrender rather than suffer the fate of Ma‘arra.

With Ma‘arra behind them (literally in ruins), the crusader army – now consolidated mostly under Raymond’s leadership, as Bohemond stayed in Antioch and others had gone home or to Edessa – regrouped at the city of Arqa in Lebanon by spring 1099. There they waited futilely for months, partly due to Raymond’s insistence on besieging Arqa and partly due to the unresolved Holy Lance controversy (which culminated in Peter Bartholomew’s ill-fated trial by fire on April 8, 1099, where he perished, effectively discrediting the Lance faction)[92][93]. In April, the crusade’s leadership was further shaken when news arrived that Emperor Alexios had no intention of coming to assist or join them – he likely considered their mission accomplished enough or too perilous beyond Antioch. The crusaders realized they were on their own for the final leg.

At last, by May 1099, pressure from the rank-and-file forced Raymond to abandon the drawn-out siege of Arqa and resume the advance. Despite all setbacks, around 14,000 crusader fighters (perhaps 1,200 knights and the rest infantry) remained, along with several thousand non-combatants – a much-reduced but hardened force[121][122]. They marched south along the Mediterranean coast, avoiding unnecessary conflicts when possible. Muslim governors, hearing of the Frankish terrors, often opted to supply the army or let them pass unmolested. The emir of Tripoli, for instance, reportedly sent gifts of horses and provisions rather than risk his city’s destruction. In early June, the crusaders reached the environs of Jerusalem, the Holy City now controlled by the Egyptian Fatimids who had retaken it from the Turks the year before.

Three arduous, bloody years since Urban’s call, the ragged survivors of the First Crusade finally beheld their ultimate goal on the horizon. Cheers and sobs broke out as they fell to their knees at the sight of Jerusalem’s walls and the golden dome of the Rock shimmering in the sun. But tears of joy would soon turn to sweat and blood once more: Jerusalem would not be handed to them – it had to be taken by siege and storm, in a climax as apocalyptic as anything they had yet experienced.

The Holy City Besieged: Siege of Jerusalem (June–July 1099)

On 7 June 1099, the First Crusade’s remnants arrived before Jerusalem. For many, it was an almost surreal moment – the goal of their pilgrimage now in sight. Pilgrims who had trudged thousands of miles, enduring unimaginable horrors, wept and sang the hymn “Urbs Ierusalem beata.” One chronicler recounts that upon seeing the city’s holy shrines, the crusaders “knelt down and adored the ground” with tears, fulfilling vows made long ago in their distant homelands[123][124].

Jerusalem, however, was a formidable fortress. Recently in August 1098 it had been taken by the Egyptian Fatimids, and its governor Iftikhar al-Dawla had prepared well for a siege[53][125]. The city’s defenses boasted towering stone walls (some 15 meters high) and a deep ditch. Iftikhar had expelled Jerusalem’s native Christian population, fearing collaboration with the Franks, and poisoned the wells in the surrounding countryside[126]. He also cut down trees for miles (both to deny timber to the crusaders and clear fields of fire)[126]. The crusaders thus found themselves before a heavily defended city with scarce water or wood in the environs – an ominous situation as the blazing Middle Eastern summer began.

The besieging host numbered perhaps 12,000–15,000 effective soldiers (estimates vary; contemporary letters claimed 1,300 knights and 12,000 foot) – drastically fewer than at the start of the crusade[82][127]. They encamped around Jerusalem’s north and west sides: Godfrey of Bouillon and Tancred to the north, near St. Stephen’s Gate; Raymond of Toulouse to the south on Mount Zion; the eastern wall overlooking the Kidron Valley was too steep and thus lightly watched, so the crusaders did not fully invest it[128][129]. This partial encirclement allowed some communications into the city, but the Fatimid garrison could not muster large sorties; they relied on their strong walls.

At first, water shortages plagued the crusaders terribly. Jerusalem in June has scant rainfall. The garrison’s tactic of fouling wells forced the Franks to trek long distances to find springs. Many men and animals collapsed from thirst. But faith sustained the army. On June 13, the crusaders attempted an initial assault on the city, hoping to exploit shock and fervor before fatigue set in[130]. Ladders were raised and a handful of knights, including one named Rainbold, gained the wall briefly[131]. However, they were beaten back – the defenders fought fiercely, and the crusaders realized they lacked sufficient siege engines to force a breach[130]. The assault failed, costing casualties and morale.

Regrouping, the leaders decided to build proper siege towers and battering rams. But for that, they desperately needed wood. Providence (or luck) answered: on June 17, as if by divine favor, word arrived that Genoese and English ships had landed at Jaffa, the coastal port, carrying supplies and skilled craftsmen[132]. The crusaders fetched planks and tools from these ships and also scavenged timber from as far as Samaria and the forests near Shechem (some accounts mention they dismantled houses or used local trees from Nablus, and even repurposed some timbers left by earlier Fatimid defenses). Under the direction of a Genoese engineer named Guglielmo Embriaco, they constructed two immense siege towers on wheeled bases, covered in protective hides[133][134]. One tower was assigned to the north side (under Godfrey’s command), the other to the south-west (under Raymond’s).

By early July, the siege machines were ready. Meanwhile, at the urging of a Provençal priest, the crusaders engaged in an extraordinary act of penance and piety: on July 8, the entire army – barefoot, clad in penitential robes – processed reverently around Jerusalem’s walls, singing psalms and carrying relics. The Muslim defenders jeered from above, mocking them, but the effect on crusader morale was galvanizing. This ritual circumambulation intentionally echoed the biblical march around Jericho by Joshua’s host. The message: they sought God’s direct intervention in the coming assault.

The final assault began in earnest on the night of July 13–14 and peaked on 15 July 1099. Under cover of darkness, the crusaders moved their siege towers into position. Godfrey of Bouillon had craftily disassembled and reassembled his tower to a slightly lower stretch of wall northeast of the city (near the corner by St. Stephen’s Gate), catching the Fatimids off guard[135][136]. At dawn on July 15, the great tower lumbered forward. Arrows, stones, and Greek fire hurled from the walls rained on it. One chronicler recounts how Iftikhar’s men rolled flaming barrels and launched fiery torches to set the tower alight; the crusaders doused hides with vinegar to quench the flames. The fighting was intense and personal – crossbow bolts and spear thrusts at close quarters between tower and wall.

Finally, in the mid-morning, Godfrey’s tower reached the rampart. The drawbridge dropped, and legend holds that Duke Godfrey and his brother Eustace were among the first to leap onto the wall (another account gives that a knight named Lethold of Tournai was actually first atop the battlements)[136][137]. Either way, the point of entry was secured. At roughly the same time on the southern side, Raymond’s men managed to breach through the so-called “Gardens Gate” after fierce resistance[138]. Once a section of wall was taken, crusaders poured into the city.

What followed was the infamous massacre of Jerusalem. Fueled by religious ecstasy, long-festering anger, and perhaps simple bloodlust, the crusaders showed little mercy. The Latin eyewitnesses recount the carnage with a mix of triumph and horror. The anonymous Gesta Francorum writes: “Our men followed and pursued the enemy all the way to the Temple of Solomon (the Al-Aqsa Mosque), and there slew them in great numbers. In the Temple and porch of Solomon, men rode in blood up to their ankles”[79]. This startling image of riders wading in blood to their ankles appears in multiple accounts: Raymond of Aguilers increases it to “up to the knees and bridle reins” of the horses, clearly an exaggeration or symbolic allusion[79][139]. (It echoes apocalyptic scripture, e.g., Revelation 14:20’s “blood up to the horses’ bridles”, suggesting these writers wanted to cast the slaughter in biblical proportions. Modern historians consider such descriptions figurative – the streets ran red, but literally ankle-deep blood is hyperbole[79][140]).

Muslim and Jewish inhabitants were cut down indiscriminately. Many Muslims had taken refuge on the Haram al-Sharif (Temple Mount). There, according to Fulcher (who wasn’t present but collected testimonies later), “if you had been there you would have seen our feet colored to the ankles with the blood of the slain. None of them were left alive; neither women nor children were spared”[99]. It’s a stark admission of total slaughter[99]. The Jewish community of Jerusalem also met a gruesome fate: chronicler Ibn al-Qalanisi in Damascus heard that “the Jews assembled in their synagogue, and the Franks burned it over their heads”[141][142]. A contemporary letter from the Cairo Geniza confirms the burning of the synagogue, though it’s unclear if Jews were trapped inside or had evacuated[141][143]. Either way, the Jewish Quarter was ravaged.

After two days of bloodletting, the crusader leaders finally called a halt. The Fatimid governor Iftikhar al-Dawla had barricaded himself in the Tower of David (the citadel) and negotiated his surrender by handing over the citadel in exchange for being escorted out to safety – one of the few spared. By July 17, Jerusalem was effectively empty of its previous inhabitants save for some Eastern Christians who were allowed to re-enter. The Crusaders gathered to give thanks. They had achieved the seemingly impossible: Jerusalem was in Christian hands for the first time in over four centuries.

The scale of the massacre deeply shocked the Muslim world. One later Arab historian wrote, “they [the Franks] killed more than 70,000”[82] – Ibn al-Athir uses that figure, though it’s likely inflated by an order of magnitude to express horror[127]. Modern estimates guess perhaps 3,000 to 10,000 were killed, including many refugees who had fled in before the siege[82][144]. Regardless of numbers, the moral impact was immense. Even within Christendom, some clerics questioned the righteousness of such indiscriminate butchery in the holy city. However, at the time, the crusaders saw it as God’s judgment on the infidels. One chronicler commented that in the aftermath they went to pray at the Holy Sepulchre “rejoicing and weeping from excess of joy.” They cleansed themselves – both spiritually and literally, given they were blood-spattered – and then sang “Te Deum” in the Church of the Resurrection.

With Jerusalem secured, the crusaders faced an immediate counter-threat: the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt swiftly mustered an army to reclaim the city. Barely a month after the siege, the crusaders found themselves marching out again to confront this new enemy at Ascalon.

“Ankle-Deep in Blood” – Truth or Trope?: The often-quoted image of crusaders riding in blood “up to their bridles” in Jerusalem comes from the eyewitness Raymond of Aguilers[79]. It is echoed by others like Fulcher (not present but reporting hearsay) who says blood reached their ankles[140]. Historians widely regard this as an exaggeration or literary trope[79][140]. As noted, it mirrors Biblical language (Revelation 14:20). The reality was horrific enough – blood pooling in streets, corpses heaped in sacred spaces – but the specific depth is symbolic, meant to convey extreme carnage. Modern accounts rely on these medieval sources but caution that such imagery was also used to convey divine retribution. Ibn al-Athir’s figure of 70,000 dead is likewise considered inflated[82]. More plausible is the statement of the Gesta that “the slaughter was great” but not quantified[79]. In any case, the consensus is that thousands were indeed killed and the massacre of Jerusalem was exceptionally brutal, exceeding the norms of siege warfare. Contemporary Christian justifications varied – some saw it as purging a holy place of defilement, others simply as the customary (if regrettable) fate of a city taken by storm after refusing surrender[145][146]. Yet even then, a few voices like that of the Cairo Geniza letter indicate complexities: that letter suggests some Jews survived via ransom, hinting that not absolutely everyone was killed[147][148]. Nonetheless, the enduring image of rivers of blood has become a defining and damning symbol of crusader violence – one that medieval writers themselves crafted for posterity.

The Battle of Ascalon and the Crusade’s End (August 1099)

Hardly had the blood dried in Jerusalem when the new Christian masters of the city learned of an impending counter-attack. Al-Afdal Shahanshah, the Fatimid vizier of Egypt, had assembled a large army – by some estimates 20,000 to 30,000 strong – and marched north through Sinai to Ascalon, a coastal fortress southwest of Jerusalem. The Fatimids aimed to crush the exhausted crusaders and retake Jerusalem for Egypt.

The crusader leaders, fresh from victory but aware of their precarious position, quickly mobilized. On the morning of August 12, 1099, barely a month after Jerusalem’s capture, the Christian host – perhaps around 10,000 fit for battle, including 1,200 knights – set out before dawn and advanced toward Ascalon. Godfrey of Bouillon, now acclaimed as the ruler of Jerusalem (he refused the title “King,” preferring “Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre”), led the army alongside Raymond of Toulouse, Tancred, Eustace of Boulogne, and others. Notably absent was Bohemond; he remained in Antioch. So this battle would fall to the remaining coalition of princes who had seen Jerusalem through.

The Fatimid camp lay in a lush plain outside Ascalon, its tents arrayed and security perhaps lax due to overconfidence. Al-Afdal did not expect the Franks to strike so boldly. According to the Gesta, the crusaders achieved almost complete surprise. They descended upon the Muslim camp at first light, catching many enemy troops still unprepared. One eyewitness letter describes how the Christian knights formed into wedges and charged, while the infantry shouted “Deus vult!” and followed.

A fierce melee erupted. The Egyptians, many of whom were Sudanese and Arab infantry supported by Berber and Arab cavalry, tried to form lines but the sudden shock threw them. Al-Afdal’s troops, though numerous, were not seasoned in fighting European heavy cavalry. The crusader knights, with couched lances and broadswords, smashed into the vizier’s positions. Raymond of Aguilers recounts that Bishop Adhémar’s standard (Adhémar had died, but his chaplain carried his banner) flew at the forefront, boosting morale as at Antioch.

The battle was short and decisive. The Fatimid forces collapsed under the onslaught. Many turned and fled to the safety of Ascalon’s citadel, pursued vigorously by Tancred’s contingent. The vizier al-Afdal himself barely escaped to the fortress, allegedly abandoning his richly decorated tent and personal treasure in the rout. The crusaders seized an immense booty – “camels, sheep, cattle beyond number” and other supplies[114][149]. So much food was captured, an eyewitness wrote, that “all of our poor were sated.” Thomas Asbridge notes that this victory at Ascalon had “positive effects on the crusaders’ short-term prospects: reports of brutality at Antioch and Ma’arra had so terrified opponents that many garrisons preferred truces to battle”[96][120] – and here again the sudden ferocity at Ascalon convinced the Egyptians to withdraw rather than pursue further combat.

Within hours, the Battle of Ascalon was over – a resounding triumph that eliminated the last major threat to the nascent crusader kingdom’s survival in its fragile infancy. Some crusaders urged an immediate assault to seize Ascalon itself. However, disputes between Godfrey and Raymond re-emerged; Raymond wanted Ascalon surrendered to him, which Godfrey (and Tancred) refused. The Fatimid garrison, witnessing the fractious crusader leaders, capitalized on their hesitation and refused to capitulate. In the end, the crusaders did not capture Ascalon – a decision later regretted, as Ascalon remained a hostile Fatimid outpost for decades. But at that moment, August 1099, the Franks were content with their victory and spoils.

With the Holy Sepulchre liberated and the Egyptian army repulsed, the First Crusade’s mission was essentially completed. After Ascalon, the majority of crusaders felt released from their vows. They had achieved what they set out to do: pilgrimage accomplished, sins remitted. One by one, thousands of crusaders – especially the French knights and their levies – took leave to return home to Europe, bearing relics and tales of wonder. Godfrey of Bouillon stayed as the guardian of Jerusalem (though he would die within a year, in 1100, and be succeeded by his brother Baldwin as the first Latin king of Jerusalem). A few, like Tancred, remained to help consolidate the new territories. The era of the Crusader States had begun: the Kingdom of Jerusalem, County of Edessa, Principality of Antioch, and soon County of Tripoli would serve as outposts of Latin Christendom in the Levant[150][151].

When news of Jerusalem’s fall reached Europe, it ignited an almost millennial jubilation. Pope Urban II, however, did not live to hear of it – he died two weeks after Jerusalem was taken, perhaps unaware that his great endeavor had succeeded beyond all expectation. But others celebrated: masses of thanksgiving were held; the warriors returning were hailed as heroes and in some accounts even had triumphal entries into cities. A 12th-century chronicler, William of Tyre, reflecting later, wrote with reverence of the First Crusaders as “a chosen generation, who, despising the pleasant things of the world, took up the Lord’s burden and merited to arrive at the Holy Places” (though William also did not shy from noting their flaws).

Why It Succeeded – A Crusade’s Unlikely Triumph: Historians have long analyzed how this First Crusade – a patchwork of armies led by often quarrelsome nobles, operating far beyond familiar ground – managed to conquer the Holy Land against larger forces. Several key factors emerge. Muslim disunity was paramount: the Seljuk Turks and Fatimid Egyptians were bitter rivals, failing to coordinate against the common foe[93][96]. The local Muslim emirates (Aleppo, Damascus, Mosul, etc.) were fractured and often more concerned with their internecine contests than with the invading Franks, who initially seemed an incomprehensible transient threat. This bought the crusaders critical opportunities – such as Kerbogha’s coalition falling apart at Antioch, or the Fatimids negotiating rather than immediately fighting. Byzantine support, though inconsistent, was also crucial early on: Emperor Alexios provided guides, ships, and supplies (notably at Nicaea and along the march)[40][49]. Without Byzantine naval help at Nicaea or provision ships at Antioch, the crusade might have failed. The crusaders’ own religious zeal and morale cannot be understated – belief in their holy cause (bolstered by phenomena like the Holy Lance) gave them extraordinary resilience in dire conditions[89][94]. As modern historian Thomas Asbridge observes, faith was a “major, if incalculable” factor in their success[152][73]. They truly believed God guided their swords, which sustained them through famine and fear. Militarily, the Franks’ heavy cavalry and coherent shock tactics often outmatched the lightly armored, if highly mobile, Turkish cavalry in set-piece battles once the crusaders learned to counter nomad tactics (as at Dorylaeum and Antioch)[60][153]. The element of surprise and audacity also played a role – from Bohemond’s daring night escalade at Antioch[75] to the swift strike at Ascalon, the crusaders repeatedly took initiative that unbalanced their foes. Lastly, leadership, though divided at times, shone when most needed: figures like Bohemond, Raymond, Godfrey, and Adhémar each in their turn rose to inspire and organize the host at critical junctures. In sum, a rare convergence of zeal, opportunism born of enemy disarray, and sheer grit allowed this seemingly quixotic expedition to carve out a victory that left contemporaries amazed and the world changed.

Epilogue: A Legacy Written in Blood and Faith

From the preaching at Clermont to the walls of Jerusalem, the First Crusade unfolded as a saga of faith-driven heroism entangled with atrocity – a hybrid of pilgrimage and war unprecedented in medieval history. Its narrative threads – the piety of peasants, the stratagems of princes, the sufferings of multitudes – wove together into a legend that would reverberate for centuries.

In the aftermath, the Latin victors established rule over the holy places. Godfrey of Bouillon, the Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre, governed Jerusalem (refusing a king’s crown in the city where Christ wore a crown of thorns). When he died in 1100, Baldwin of Edessa became King Baldwin I of Jerusalem, cementing a secular monarchy. The survivors of the crusade, whether remaining in Outremer or returning to Europe, carried with them indelible memories and scars.

For the Islamic world, the shock of this crusade’s success – chronicled in sorrow by the likes of Ibn al-Qalanisi and Ibn al-Athir – planted seeds of eventual response (decades later, leaders like Zengi, Nur ad-Din, and Saladin would arise to challenge the Latin states). The Jewish communities of Europe, scarred by 1096’s massacres, entered a new age of anxiety, their Hebrew chronicles framing the crusaders as new Amalekites and finding solace in martyrdom’s sanctity[28][34]. In Latin Christendom, the First Crusade was enshrined as an epochal triumph of Christendom, a validation of the papacy’s leadership and the knightly class’s spiritual role. Chroniclers like Fulcher of Chartres celebrated how “the West ventured forth to the East and was victorious”[154][155]. Yet even among Christians, a note of disquiet persisted regarding the brutality – some churchmen questioned whether the slaughter of Jerusalem’s populace was consistent with Christian mercy, an ethical debate that would echo faintly in years to come.

In the historiography of the crusade, source perspectives remain critical. We possess eyewitness Latin chronicles (Gesta Francorum, Fulcher, Raymond, etc.) that exult in God’s justice; equally, Muslim chronicles (like al-Athir’s) that rue the calamity and demonize the Franks; and Jewish accounts that cast the crusaders as avenging demons. By comparing these, modern historians piece together a more nuanced truth, acknowledging the crusaders’ fervent religiosity and courage while not flinching from the dark violence unleashed.

The First Crusade thus stands as a paradox of medieval humanity: capable of sublime faith and appalling cruelty. Those who marched, starved, prayed, fought, and died between 1095 and 1099 believed themselves actors in a divine drama – a new Exodus or apocalyptic trial – and indeed their deeds reshaped the world. They founded kingdoms, opened enduring channels of cultural contact and conflict, and etched into memory tales of “armed pilgrimage” that would inspire and trouble generations.

Nearly a millennium later, the echo of their shouts – “Deus vult!” – and the sight of the cross unfurled above Jerusalem on July 15, 1099, remain potent symbols. The First Crusade’s hybrid narrative – part holy war, part penitential journey – defies simple judgment. It must be remembered in full: the fervor of Clermont’s call, the valor under Antioch’s walls, the desperation at Ma‘arra’s bonfires, and the jubilation/moral abyss of Jerusalem. In that honest remembrance – with annotated analysis and voices from all sides – we find not a black-and-white epic, but a human story of faith and fallibility written in blood and hope.