The emir, Yaghi-Siyan, ruled a city at peace —
Muslims, Jews, Armenians, Turks,
Christians, Mazdans– the polyglot brood
of Zoroaster, Abraham, Jesus, and Mohammed.
Attack at Antioch
Long a Roman stronghold in the East,
its walls were sealed tight to mountains.
Skirting the western side, the “rebel river”
Orontes ran in torrents toward the sea.
Ruins covered ruins. Columns fell,
yet still the city danced with light
from churches, minarets, markets,
splendid dignified halls and villas.
Disparate tribes demanded canny judgments.
Siyan feared most the empire of the Greeks
expanding. Armies of the Franj might mean
that Christians from both north and west
would squeeze the throat of his beloved land.
“Will the Christians here betray me?” he wondered.
“Will they be lured by the flags and pennants
that bear that flaming cross.? Distrusting,
he ordered them all outside the city walls
and shut the gates, saying, “Antioch
is still yours. Just leave it in my care.
I will resolve this problem with the Franj.”
Without them, he felt secure, depending
on the impregnable stone heights
with farming fields and wells enclosed.
and the river water if needed. Surveying
his situation, he was well satisfied.
But tribal rivals played him false.
Because he had harassed them in the past
they used his danger to betray him.
Antioch suffered a nine-month siege.
Siyan himself had no great taste for war.
and so, when the Franj seemed to turn north
toward Odessa, he assumed the fight was over.
Sadly, he was wrong to let down his guard.
That night a traitor opened a window
and let the Franj climb in unchallenged.
When trumpets at dawn woke Siyan,
he and a few others had barely time to flee.
The tears of a coward wracked his soul.
He fell from his horse and died in the road.
A passing Armenian recognized his body.
cut off his head and brought it to the Franj
The streets were blood and fire, fouled
by crazed songs of drunken plunderers.
Smoke rose from burning houses.
Finally help arrived, but Antioch was lost.
Muslims had failed to stem the tide of Franj.
No Syrian weaver has ever made a shroud
of silk spun fine enough to hide such shame.
Comments