Conquest

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Roger de Hauteville had one guiding principle: never to fight on a field he had not chosen — preferably one in a mountainous landscape where he could narrow the field of battle to suit his numbers, nullifying the advantage his enemies enjoyed in that area. For a long time Ayub had played cat and mouse, seeming to seek the Normans out, then, if he thought the circumstances unfavourable, withdrawing out of harm’s way. So it came as a surprise, while Roger was manoeuvring on the far side of the mountain range protecting Palermo, to find the Saracen army coming forward to meet him. He knew what had tempted the emir to act: he had split his forces to range and raid over a wider area, one part under Serlo, another given to Jordan with Ralph de Boeuf alongside to ensure he was not too rash. Ayub thought he had caught him with only his own contingent of lances, a third of his strength. What the emir could not grasp — he thought as a commander of a foot-bound army — was how quickly the Normans could concentrate.

His stated aim was to destroy the Roman Christians: not to kick them out of Sicily but to annihilate them on the field of battle. Given he had spent so much time without fulfilling that boast his authority was being weakened while his army was becoming disgruntled — and that made him impulsive. So much time and endless marching had been devoted to seeking advantage that a battle he wished to fight on his terms became one he had to fight to keep his authority. Getting to grips with the Count of Sicily moved from being an aspiration to a necessity.

He chose to make good his boast near a small town called Misilmeri, unaware that the system Roger had set up to keep communications with his son and nephew meant he could gather together his entire force in the space of one day, something he had not bargained for. Ayub never grasped that the Norman raiding horses were not the destriers with which they engaged in battle, so they could still be fresh. Also, Roger was leading men who had become battle-hardened by years of warfare and had beaten the Saracens so many times they held them in contempt. That had nothing to do with individual bravery — they had met and slaughtered many heroic men; it was in the mass they were poor, lacking in both training and leadership.

The latter was paramount: no Saracen general stood in battle with his men: always they sought to direct matters from a position of personal safety and they relied on numbers, not skill. No Norman leader who behaved in that way would have lasted a day. He trained with his men, rode with them, ate the same food and suffered the same privations. When they fought, the man who led exercised close control and if the fight was to be lost the choice was his whether to stand and die rather than flee.

When contact was made, what Ayub saw was that which he expected: a hundred lances in what seemed an exposed position and no foot soldiers on a wide, open field of his choosing, with no river or broken ground on the flanks, so for once he had a chance to overlap their line, sure in the knowledge that Norman strength lay in close-order fighting. Behind them the ground fell away sharply; drive them back a short distance and they would be trying to hold on a downward slope. Emir Ayub was also sure they could not be reinforced: he had scouts out on swift horses who, if they sighted the other sections of Roger’s force, would ride back to warn him so he would be given the choice of accepting battle or breaking off the engagement.

Ayub failed to consider his enemies would anticipate such a move or that they would ensure whatever tactics they would ultimately employ would be kept hidden from him. To track cavalry you must work at their pace and, if you cannot keep them in view, it was essential to follow the dust they created and evidence on the ground of their passing: hoof prints and dung piles. The former becomes a problem in rocky terrain — a scout becomes less sure of numbers, doubly so if those being observed are aware of being under scrutiny. When you do not want to be seen, the first act to create obscurity is to ambush and kill those spying on your movements.

So, when Emir Ayub, second son of the Zirid sultan and a proud prince, drew up his forces for the battle he had waited so long to bring on, he was unaware that the bones of his fast-riding scouts were being picked over by vultures, unaware that on the reverse slopes of his chosen battlefield, behind Roger de Hauteville, sat another two hundred lances he was sure were elsewhere. He expected the Normans to stay on the defensive and arranged his troops to meet that contingency; this time his numbers, with room to deploy, would encircle and crush these heathens.

His first shock, when he set his army in motion, was to find them immediately attacked by a line of Norman lances under the banner of the Count of Sicily, the real blow the point at which he realised that to either side of that line of lances came two more batailles of a similar size. If he had possessed any ability, he would have known that security lay in allowing the two elements to meet, then, in as orderly a way as possible, by sacrificing his leading elements, to disengage the remainder and seek to retire in good order, which he had time to organise. The very worst thing to do was to seek to break off the battle immediately.

In the confusion of horns blowing, conflicting, shouted orders, some men moving forward while others sought to retire, Ayub created maximum confusion. Messengers rode forward to deliver his commands, but he lacked the soldiers who would comprehend and, if they did do so, swiftly obey. Roger led his men into a milling mass of confusion, visiting upon the Saracen levies a slaughter greater than any so far committed. It was almost as if, with no one to tell them what to do, they decided to welcome death. As was customary, when it came to flight, their leaders were in the vanguard. It took half a day to complete the killing.

‘It seems not to matter what they give up to us,’ Serlo said, surveying yet another set of Saracen tents crammed with booty. ‘They always have more.’

While his confreres were ogling the valuables, Jordan was eyeing cages full of pigeons, several dozen in number. Reaching in, he gently lifted out a bird, handling it as he would a very young falcon; they were clearly tame. He then joined Roger at the mouth of the tent where he was discussing with Ralph de Boeuf what this victory would mean for the future.

‘We could test our hawks with these, Father.’

With that Jordan let the bird go and it rose into the sky, circled once or twice, then headed quite deliberately north-west at speed, which had Roger watching it intently until it disappeared.

‘Fetch out another.’

Jordan did so and let it go, only to observe a repeat of the actions of that first pigeon: a couple of circles followed by the choice of a deliberate course on the same path of flight. Roger came to look at the birdcages, then he examined an open chest beside them, one that had been ignored given it held nothing valuable, taking from it small capsules made of parchment, each with delicate ties.

‘Another bird, Jordan, and hold it this time.’ With gentle hands another pigeon was presented and this time Roger laced the small parchment tube to its leg. ‘Now let it go.’

Jordan did so, saying as it flew off, ‘There must be a rich source of food wherever they are headed.’

‘They are going to Palermo,’ Roger replied.

‘Why?’

It was Serlo who answered. ‘Carrier pigeons, of which I have heard, but never till this day seen — a way of sending messages over long distances.’

‘Had Ayub destroyed us this day, these would have carried news of his victory to the citizens of Palermo.’

‘Then can we not use them to send news of his defeat?’ asked Jordan.

It was an idea: Roger had with him men who had enough Arabic and writing skill to compose the message, but would it be believed? An image of the men so recently slaughtered came to him, Sicilian Saracens in their various-coloured garb; yellows, reds, every shade in between and, of course, the black of Ayub’s own North Africans. Right now the locals would be scavenging the battlefield stripping them of everything, garments included.

‘Serlo, Jordan, get amongst the dead. I want strips of every kind of clothing they are wearing, all the colours.’

‘Why?’ asked Jordan.

For once his father was not in the mood to indulge him and his response was sharp. ‘Just do as I ask!’ As they departed, Serlo amused and Jordan chastened, Roger called after them, ‘And dip parts of the cloth in their blood.’

The first two pigeons coming into their home loft with no message was put down to error, probably poor handling, but when the rest came in with tiny bloodstained strips of cloth attached to their legs, all in different colours, there could be no doubt what the message portended. It told the citizens of Palermo that the army they had hoped would drive away the Normans had failed, and implied what was only later found out to be true. Emir Ayub had not just suffered a reverse: he had lost the last hope the city had of their enemies being beaten away from their walls.

His authority shattered, Ayub fled back to Africa, taking what remained of his forces with him, while the Sicilians Saracens had scattered. When no Norman army appeared to besiege them they were confused, but they could not see into the mind of Roger de Hauteville, did not know he was aware of his limitations and had a strong memory of another city he had supposed was at his mercy. Yes, he had broken Saracen resistance — there would still be fights but there would be no more pitched battles — but until he had a proper army he would merely contain Palermo and keep the city on edge, while making sure by constant raiding that his enemies could not reform again. Then, when his brother was free, when Bari had fallen, then Robert would come and, together this time, Palermo would be theirs.

‘But when will that be, Father?’ Jordan pleaded.

‘When the summons comes from Apulia, boy.’

‘You are sure he will send for you?’

‘Certain,’ Roger snapped. ‘Robert will not want Bari to fall without I should be there as witness.’

Already over a year in duration, the siege of Bari was seemingly going nowhere. Robert was frustrated and irritable, his nature would allow of no other mood, but he still kept himself in a positive frame of mind, even if, at this moment, he was trying to cheer up Bohemund, a favourite son mired in deep gloom. Inside Bari he had support, also he had methods by which information and bribes were passed to and fro, so he knew the exact state of the city storerooms and could thus calculate the time it would take to starve the defenders out. He also knew that opinion within the Greek community was moving in his direction: the rise of the Normans had been so inexorable and over so many years that many now believed their supremacy to be inevitable. Better to make peace than face a bloody end fighting what could not be gainsaid.

Set against that, Bisanzio had managed to slip out of Bari and Robert suspected he was on his way to Constantinople to seek reinforcements. Even if he doubted he would succeed he had put some ships out in deeper water to watch the approaches, with orders to intercept any vessel making for the port.

‘They ridiculed me, bringing up their most precious treasures of gold and silver onto the ramparts and waving them.’ Robert laughed then, a deep rumble. ‘They do not do that now, do they, so what does that tell you?’

Bohemund had another concern: how they were ever going to get a siege tower close to the walls without it being burnt? Ten had been built, ten had trundled forward and ten had been set alight by jets of Greek fire and there was no other way to surmount the walls, given their height.

‘I want to try to sap,’ he said.

Robert looked hard at him, thinking Bohemund was not a jolly companion, he was too concentrated on fighting to enjoy a jest and he was a mass of impatience, this being his first siege.

‘The city is built on rock.’

‘There must be soft earth somewhere.’

‘Yes there is,’ Robert growled, ‘and you are likely to be buried in it.’

‘I am sick of doing nothing or building towers so that the Bariots can warm their arses.’

‘How many times have I told you not to fret, time is our friend, not our enemy.’

‘I’ll be a greybeard before I see inside that damned city.’

Robert’s heir, Roger, came bursting in, as enthusiastic as a boy of his age should be, soon followed by his doting mother. Sichelgaita exchanged a sour look with Bohemund, one that the father of both boys, even as he allowed Roger to jump on him, could not avoid observing.

‘I take it,’ Sichelgaita said, ‘the great general is still trying to tell you that you know nothing about how to fight a war?’

‘I would not dream of usurping your position,’ Bohemund spat.

‘Can I have some money, Papa,’ Roger cried, ‘for my purse?’

Sichelgaita had been glaring at Bohemund with loathing, but that changed to a maternal beam as she looked at Roger: she doted on the child and was, with a motherly mote to cloud her vision, looking forward to a day when he was a match in height and build for his disenfranchised sibling. Robert was fond of Roger, whom he had nicknamed Borsa for his love of money, not the possession of it but his habit of endlessly counting coins. However, it took no great genius to see if there was an inheritance in his blood it came from his wife’s family rather than his own: Roger Borsa looked like Sichelgaita’s brother, Gisulf — thin, with dull, fair hair and no glint in his eye of anything martial.

‘You always think my coffers are full, Borsa.’

‘Are they not, Papa?’

‘Maybe, I do not know, for I have to go to them often to pay my spies.’

‘Then you must let me tally them for you.’

‘And, my little Lombard, pocket a few,’ Bohemund sneered.

‘If he does,’ Sichelgaita hissed, ‘it is only because he has a right to it! And if you mock, it is because you have not.’

‘Enough, wife,’ Robert sighed.

The Duke of Apulia could silence most people, but not his wife.

‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘You let this popinjay insult your heir and say and do nothing.’

‘It was naught but a jest.’

‘It was a slur.’

‘That it most certainly was,’ Bohemund added gaily: Sichelgaita upset was one of the few things that made him happy. Roger Borsa had turned to look at him and if, in the boy’s eyes, was a kind of pleading affection, it was not returned. His half-brother was looking at him as a fox looks at a caged chicken, a stare that was broken by one of Robert’s servants entering the main tent.

‘Sire, a messenger from Geoffrey Ridel.’

Robert nodded, put his son on the floor, glared at both his wife and Bohemund and turned to face the man who had come in to tell him that a fleet of ships had been sighted heading for Bari, and Geoffrey Ridel suspected, by their lack of flags, they were from Constantinople.

‘Thank the good Jesus Christ,’ Robert boomed, which got him a hard look from Sichelgaita, who did not like the Lord’s name taken in vain when her son was in earshot. He hauled himself upright. ‘I have an enemy to fight that I can deal with.’

Bohemund, ever keen for a scrap, had gone before the messenger had finished his delivery, as if to be on the shore was to see this approaching hazard, which must be many leagues away in the open sea; Ridel, in command, had sent in a small, swift boat to carry the news.

‘You must curb that swine,’ Sichelgaita growled. ‘He is too free with his tongue.’

Robert looked at her wearily: if Bohemund was too free with that, he was not alone. ‘Right now I am concerned that Bisanzio is returning to Bari and if he is doing so in a fleet that means he has brought reinforcements. That I must deal with — and now.’

‘And Bohemund?’

‘Is my flesh and blood, just like little Borsa.’

‘Whom he hates. I have asked you before and I ask you again, send Bohemund away.’

‘Where?’

‘To Sicily, to Normandy or to England. Let him make his way in another land, not here.’

‘He will not harm our child, Sichelgaita,’ he said in a tired fashion, given it was something he was called upon to repeat often. ‘And before you ask how I know, I will see to it.’

‘And if you do not, will his Uncle Roger?’

‘He has told me he will. More than that I cannot do. Now please help me fight my enemies, not my family.’

Bisanzio was the first to admit he was no soldier — which had hampered his efforts to contain the Guiscard. Always having to rely on others for military advice he was never sure if the steps being taken were correct. His plea to the Empress Eudoxia for more troops — her husband was away fighting the Turks — was only part of his submission: the defenders of Bari needed a soldier, a man they could respect to take charge of thwarting the siege.

Stephen Paternos was that man, highly regarded and a proven success, so when he suggested splitting the relief force in two, separating the grain convoy from the ships carrying the fighting men, Bisanzio was happy to agree. Thus, as he approached his city and the Norman barrier, on a strong following wind, he was unaware that the grain ships had been intercepted; all he knew was what he could see, an endless stream of fighting men crossing those plank gangways from ship to ship, forming up in its defence. On the Byzantine decks, the warriors were crowding up from below, likewise preparing for battle.

‘Steer straight for them,’ Paternos ordered, ‘All sail set.’

‘They are stout bottoms, Excellency,’ the captain of the lead vessel replied — his ship was hired and thus he was more careful of its preservation than if it had been an imperial war vessel.

‘Not the ships, fool,’ Paternos barked, ‘the planks joining one to the other.’

‘The other vessels?’ Bisanzio asked, though softly: he did not want to be seen to question the military tactics and so undermine Paternos.

‘Will follow in our wake, that is if the dolts in command of them have a brain.’

The Catapan had met many military men in his time and it seemed they all talked in that fashion, an abrupt delivery that took no regard of the pride of the person being addressed, not something he, being in essence a politician, could do. He had to persuade and cajole, and often he found himself employing such wiles with people he knew were considering betraying the empire. Would there be more now than when he had left for Constantinople? Would the sight of reinforcements, always assuming they could break through, still those seditious voices?

The Guiscard knew the weakest part of his defence line was where the ships were joined, so he had placed them so close that for a vessel to ram its way through would so damage it as to perhaps have it sink in the attempt. Having done that, it would have been wise to also acknowledge that another eye examining the problem might come up with a viable solution.

The captain of the vessel was clearly in a state of some distress: he could see the gap he was being asked to sail into at full speed and he knew he would not get through without massive damage. More by hand signal than spoken order he was having the sails eased so they were not drawing as tight as they might, thus reducing the way on the ship and the potential destruction. That Stephen Paternos spotted this surprised him, but not as much as what he did next.

‘Tell me, Captain, who would you ask to command the ship if you were suddenly indisposed?’ Seeing the man wondering at the question, he added, ‘We are about to go into a fight, Captain, and I am no sailor. I need to know for the safety of us all.’

‘My mate, the fellow on the tiller.’

‘Call him to us.’

That the captain did, and as soon as his mate joined them, Paternos whipped out his sword and swung it high and hard, to cleave the captain’s head from his body, speaking before the skull had stopped rolling into the scantlings and the decapitated cadaver had fallen over, spouting foaming blood through the open trunk.

‘Set the sails properly,’ he barked at the terrified mate. ‘Do as I command, or you will suffer the same fate.’

His next order, given in a raised voice as the ship picked up speed, was for a division of his forces to be undertaken just before they struck. His men were evenly distributed on each side of the companionway that led below; this he wished to change.

‘This vessel may founder, so we need another, and the Norman barbarians have kindly provided them. Just before we make contact I want half of one division to join me on whichever side of the ship I am on, the rest to remain to defend the other side. Our task is to take one of the Normans’ vessels so quickly we will stop help coming aboard, then detach it from its fellows and create a gap for the rest of our vessels to follow. Now, everyone out of the prow.’

His enemies could not doubt as to what he intended, and they likewise began to ship men from positions in which they would be exposed, denuding the prow of one ship and the stern of another. Paternos, looking at the other vessels in his flotilla, could be content: his junior commanders, good soldiers and long servants of the empire, were implementing the plan he had discussed the last time they were on land. The grain ships might have evaded the Normans’ fleet at sea but, if not, they had drawn them away from where they were really needed: soldiers were more important in this siege than loaves of bread.

‘Brace yourselves,’ he shouted, grabbing a transfixed Bisanzio and forcing him to take hold of a cleat, this as he moved to one side, the men he had ordered to follow doing so just in time to grab at a steadying rope.

The crunch was deafening, the prow of the Byzantine ship rising up like a rearing horse as it ploughed into the planks, brought to halt, timber shattering and splinters flying. By the time it settled Paternos was already on the stern of the vessel he wanted to take, aware and pleased that the second of his ships, without specific orders, had sheared contact with the next ship in line. The Norman tactic did not place many men on each vessel, the idea being that once the point of assault was established they could concentrate; Paternos, by his tactics, had nullified their numerical advantage where it mattered.

Those standing next to Robert de Hauteville heard him swear and it took the loudest shout he could muster to stop Bohemund rushing into what he knew would be a losing battle. He knew, too, there was no need to seal the limits of the Byzantine attack: they did not want to destroy his defence, merely to get through. It was as hard to watch his men go down as much as to see his line ripped open, but, good as they were, they were outnumbered by proper soldiers and in a situation where no quarter was a necessity. Already his mind was moving on.

‘Get the blacksmiths at their forges now, from here to Melfi. I want chains made, stout enough to stop this happening again.’

That, too, had to be said loudly, to carry over the cheering from the ramparts of Bari.