And why, oh why, did I even try?

The answer, I think, is that I could not in good conscience abide the thought of Christians making war on their Christian brothers, of believers pursuing the hateful waste of God's precious gift of life for the most frivolous and imbecilic of reasons. Blind and arbitrary fortune had placed me in a position to know certain things-the movements of armies, the intentions of rulers-and I had somehow concocted the belief that this knowledge brought with it an obligation to use it wisely and for good.

This is emotion, as I say, not reason. If I had stopped, even for a moment, and reflected on the matter, I would have seen grim futility looming starkly before me. If only I had asked myself one simple question: what did I want?

Now, after endless months of sober reflection, I have come to the conclusion that what I wanted was simply for everyone to sit down across the table and work out their differences in a sane and sensible manner. I believed that fellow Christians, Frank and Armenian, could be united against the common Seljuq enemy. In short, I wanted peace to prevail, and saw no just reason why it should not. I believed that one man of good will could make a difference and that God would honour those who strove to honour him.

In the madness that passes for sanity in the East, this belief was pure delusion. An infinitely sadder and wiser man understands that now.

On that fateful day, however, I raced from the city, eager to distance myself from the insidious deceit of the place and for Padraig and me to resume our pilgrimage. I pressed a swift pace along the rough, uneven road, my heart burning within me, wishing I had never heard of Ghazi, Thoros, or Bohemond.

These thoughts were still in my mind a little while later when, as we crested a steep hill, I saw the land fall away and spread out beneath us in a steeply-angled plain. The plain was a rolling, rock-and-thorn thicket wilderness between the rough foothills of the mountains to the north, and the raised cliffs of a deep-chasmed dry river to the south.

Even as I took this in, I pulled on the reins to halt. For there, where the road passed through the centre of the plain, I saw the sprawling mass of what remained of proud Bohemond's army.

'Christ have mercy,' Sydoni gasped. Padraig began praying aloud in Gaelic, and Yordanus croaked an incoherent oath.

Across the valley far below, a small brave knot of crusaders were yet fighting for their lives. All but lost amidst the swirling, howling Seljuqs, the Christian commanders were desperately trying to form the battle line. The few mounted knights had grouped themselves into a wedge-shaped complement in the vain hope of blunting the attack-a hopeless attempt, like trying to divide a sea wave with the edge of an oar.

Every time the crusaders made to engage the enemy, the swift Seljuqs melted away, only to assail the exposed flanks. When the crusaders turned to protect the flanks, the Arabs drove in upon them from the front. Indeed, the ceaseless swirling and diving looked like restless waves, and the clash of battle sounded like a distant storm far out on the ocean.

The flat floor of the valley formed a narrow plain between the deeply-eroded ravine of a dry riverbed to the west, and ragged, barren hills to the east. Along this plain, the rest of Bohemond's army lay scattered, fallen, still. From the long, spreading swathe of corpses, I could tell that they had marched up through the valley and into the ambush Ghazi had prepared for them. Pinched between the ravine on one side, and the hills on the other, the hapless crusaders had been cut down as they tried to flee back the way they had come.

Not that there could have been any escape. The barren slopes were covered with mounted Seljuqs from one end of the valley to the other. Some in dark turbans, and some in white, red, yellow, or brown so that they seemed a strangely-mottled sea, they surged onto the plain in a great inundating flood. My heart writhed within me to see the last of the poor doomed Franks throwing down their weapons to lend speed to their flight as the merciless Seljuqs swooped to the kill. I could smell the rich, fetid scent of blood on the breeze.

Once, as a boy, I stood on a rock above one of my father's barley fields and watched the low black clouds of a sudden summer storm sweep across the land. The wind struck first, flattening the tall grain with breathtaking violence. And then, before the golden stalks could rise from beneath the initial onslaught, fierce, wind-driven rain and ripping hail drove the overpowered grain into the ground and battered it to shreds.

What I had witnessed as a boy, I saw again now, and a more terrible harvest could not be imagined. Even from the safe distance of the hilltop, I could see the fearsome gleam of the awful Arab swords as they slashed and slashed and slashed again, like fearful hail falling from on high to pound Bohemond's army into the ground, never to rise again.

Remorse, futility, and anger struggled within me; I did not want to see the final slaughter. 'Come,' I said, wheeling my horse and moving back up the slope.

As I turned from the sight, I caught the glint of gold on the edge of my vision, looked, and saw Bohemond's golden banner gleaming in the hard midday light. And then it was gone. It simply vanished -a fragile light swallowed by the dark-turbaned sea raging all around it. There was but a momentary ripple in the tide, the treacherous flood eddied and swirled, overcame, and then flowed swiftly on.

But wait, suddenly the banner appeared again, streaking across the plain-in the hands of a Seljuq warrior, this time. The enemy rider sped away with the prize, waving it on high, and screaming like the very devil. We could hear him from the hilltop; and long after, his shouts still echoed in my ears.

As we left the killing ground behind us, I raised my eyes towards heaven and prayed for the souls of those poor ignorant soldiers led blindly to the slaughter by the unfettered ambition of their overweening lord. I asked the Great Judge not to hold the stupidity and greed of their leaders against them. 'Demonstrate your immeasurable mercy, Blessed Redeemer,' I prayed, 'and give these unfortunates places in Paradise-if not in Heaven's highest halls, then in the surrounding tents at least.'

We left the battlefield behind and, after a short ride, halted to decide what to do. It seemed to me that our best passage lay on the far side of the dry river, well away from the battlefield. It would take us far out of our way, but keep us well out of sight. Once beyond the battleground, we could rejoin the road and continue on. Padraig and Yordanus agreed.

'There are goat tracks all through these hills,' Yordanus said. 'If we keep the river between us and the valley, we will soon be well away from the fighting.'

Accordingly, I chose a goat track that ran along the back side of the hill, out of sight of the conflict, and led the way; Sydoni came next, then Yordanus, and Padraig last, leading the pack horse. We followed the path a goodly way; when it branched off, I took the new one, always keeping the line of shielding hills to my right.

At one point, the track descended towards the dry riverbed, turning in its descent and passing between two broad outcroppings of broken stone. Much rock had fallen onto the narrow trail from the steep banks on either side, thus making the pass very difficult. It took us some time to pick our way through the jagged stones, and when at last we emerged out onto the dry bed of the river, we paused for a short rest and a drink.

We dismounted in the shade of the overhanging rocks, and Padraig fetched a waterskin from the pack horse, and we passed it among us, each taking a mouthful or two. It was cooler in the shade, and it was a shame to move on, but we had a long way to go to rejoin the road, and wanted to be well away from the battlefield by nightfall.