Son of Blood

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

What followed quickly turned into a confused melee; there were no formal lines as in a land battle, no features such as rivers, forests or hills which could act as protection to a flank or provide cover for infiltration, not a single clear objective to which Robert could direct his men, quite apart from the very obvious fact he had been forced on to the defensive. Nor could he issue commands that had any hope of being obeyed, especially since his own galley was an obvious target for the dromons, massive in size now as they loomed up out of the increasing light, their aim to lop off the head in the hope the body would collapse.

In essence, while he could fight if they came close, his fate was in the hands of Geoffrey Ridel, and not for the first time in his life fortune favoured him, even if he railed against it, by granting him such a wily seaman, who had the wit to use his speaking trumpet while he could still be heard to ensure that the ducal vessel had around it a screen of fighting ships, one of which carried his bastard son, two of the others the crossbowmen.

‘Damn you, Geoffrey!’ Robert yelled, as he saw one of those dromons begin to close in on a galley. ‘Get me into the fight.’

‘Arrows!’ yelled Reynard, as he saw the greying sky go black above the masts of the protecting galleys.

This had every man on deck immediately crouching, the familia knights using their shields to protect themselves, as well as their liege lord, from harm, no more than a trice before the arrows thudded into them to embed themselves into hardwood or clang as they spun off the metal frames or the central boss. A few, overflying and missing the shields, found the open hatches that led below to the rowing deck — there had been no time to put in place the covers — and the cry of more than one wounded man carried up to the deck.

As soon as he was upright again Robert de Hauteville was marching in fury to where Geoffrey Ridel stood on the poop, right by the great tiller and the men tasked to swing it on the Master of the Fleet’s commands. Right beneath Ridel’s feet lay a slatted hatch and underneath that stood the fellow who controlled the oarsmen, so the man in command could both dictate the speed of the galley and direct the course, if necessary by the use of both.

‘Did you hear my command?’ the Guiscard yelled.

Few people could look the Duke in the eye when he was in temper and even fewer had the ability to question his judgement, for he was a master of battle who could sniff out an opponent’s weak spot before it appeared, or just by some sixth sense define the moment when resistance was about to weaken. That was on land, but being at sea Ridel had the upper hand; Robert could fight, and if age had diminished him he was still more than a match for those he was likely to face. But he could not steer a ship, nor did he have the wit to know when the combination of oars and tiller would work to advantage. This allowed Geoffrey Ridel to address his duke in a voice short on respect, indeed close to a shout.

‘My task is to keep you safe, My Lord, just as it is the task of your familia knights.’

‘I lead by example, man. I do not skulk in the background like some damned Saracen emir.’

‘If your example is to be seen sinking beneath the waves, what then?’ Ridel pointed to Robert’s personal standard, streaming out from atop the mast, alongside the flag just raised that ordered every ship to engage, as though they had a choice. ‘We must keep that standard flying; if it is cut down or this vessel is overpowered, then there is no hope of surviving to fight another day.’

‘Survival? What do you mean, Ridel? We have to win.’

‘My Lord Robert, against these great ships you cannot win, all you can do is endure.’

Bohemund was also blessed with a good hand on the tiller, a man who knew that the smaller galleys only had one advantage and that was their greater manoeuvrability; they could, if properly handled, spin in their own length, as well as swiftly increase and decrease speed. The dromons, with larger hulls and a vastly greater number of oarsmen, needed time to follow, which meant as they closed there was a moment of opportunity in which to avoid their intent to either ram or board, the latter signalled by the sudden withdrawal of the bank of oars facing the Apulian vessel.

Bohemund’s master timed his tiller turn to perfection, but it owed as much to the quick reaction of the rowers that they managed to spin away from the Venetian bearing down on them: one set of oars held their way, the others backed hard. Not that such a manoeuvre provided security; the raised-aloft boats full of archers had a clear shot at the open deck as well as the warriors who occupied it and it was only a timely command by their leader that had a number of them fall back to the stern and use their shields to protect both themselves, the ship’s master and the men working the tiller ropes. Speeding away from immediate danger brought momentary relief, but it was no more than that, for right in their path lay another dromon, its side lined with screeching fighters waving spears and swords.

‘We need to get aboard one of these ships,’ Bohemund cried into the master’s ear. ‘We have to show them they too are vulnerable.’

The look that got in response was not one to imbue Bohemund with confidence; clearly the man thought he was mad and had only one idea, to avoid contact and stay alive. About to castigate the fellow, albeit with respect for his skills, the sound of his name shouted loud made Bohemund spin round. Ligart, that redhead who had been so troublesome when raiding Capua, now a calmer fellow than hitherto, was madly waving his lance at a sight that no one aboard had ever seen. From the side of the dromon they had just avoided a pipe protruded, its spout inside the line of oars, and from that shot a bolt of flame, not aimed at them but at the hull of another galley that had been to Bohemund’s rear.

‘Greek fire,’ screeched the ship’s master. ‘It is the Devil’s work, we are doomed!’

The vision of the flames punching through water, even staying lit when they made contact, was not one to allow for Bohemund to call the man a fool. Even worse was to observe the side of the galley start to burn below the waterline, with flames rising up to ignite the timbers above sea level. If it brought fear to those who could see it at a distance, it was just as obvious that such a weapon, against which there was no defence, induced panic in those on the receiving end. Men, Norman lances included, were rushing about the deck like headless chickens. Some, easy to call them deluded when not in danger, were seeking to douse the flames with the buckets of water that lined the deck of every ship.

It was to no avail; the fire was impervious to such actions and soon the whole side of the ship was alight, with the dromon that had inflicted the damage drawing clear to avoid catching fire itself. In distress, the galley master had ordered his rowers to bend their backs, but could not see that by doing so he was creating a wind that fanned the flames and made matters worse. In the end it was not his folly that slowed the rate of fire but the panic of the oarsmen who, realising that they might be fried, let drop their sticks and began to rush on deck. From standing rock-still in amazement, Bohemund reacted to the screams emanating from the victims, many of them men he expected to fight alongside, who would be roasted alive if not saved.

‘Steer for the open side, away from the flames.’

‘You’re mad!’

The master had responded without thinking. That he did as the giant before him bent over to press home his command.

‘Do as I say or it will not be Venetians or Satan you have to fear.’

About to protest further, the scrape of a broadsword being pulled from its scabbard was enough to kill whatever objection he had been about to make. Now it was his men’s backs that had to bend as he ordered the oar master to drum for full speed, before he yelled to the tiller men to haul hard and make the necessary turn. With both banks of oars working, that was made in a long arc that took them near the stern of the dromon that had spewed out the Greek fire, now with its oars raised just above the water, content to watch its victim burn and sink. Seeing that, Bohemund began to issue another set of instructions.

It was those same raised archers who alerted the commanders on the Venetian deck that the more manoeuvrable Apulian galley was about to make its way down their side, its own oars shortened so that it could get close. Bohemund had every man on deck on one knee, shield above his head, and another party with him on the poop to once more protect the master and his steering crew. Going at full tilt, Bohemund’s ship passed the Venetian stern before those on its deck could properly react. The oars on the Apulian vessel disappeared and the master swung the tiller hard over to bring his galley into the line of Venetian oars. The sound of arrows from above thudding home was drowned out by the smashing sound of oar after oar breaking like a weak taper, while through the leather-covered rowlocks from which they protruded came screams as the men holding them, who could not see what was coming, were eviscerated, the ends being ripped out of their unsuspecting hands.

They could not entirely destroy the greater galley’s ability to manoeuvre, but they did enough damage to reduce the number of oars it could employ, before steering far enough clear to get their own back in use. Bohemund had timed the arrow salvoes, which seemed slow. Then he realised that bows must take longer to load and aim on a swaying boat hanging from ropes, this caused merely by the actions of the bodies it contained. He had his men drop their shields and sling their lances up and over the side to the part of the deck where those commanding the ship would be standing, a crying sound telling them they had done damage to human flesh.

Getting back to full speed the ship’s master swung his galley, using oars and tiller, past the prow of the stationary dromon, then deployed both again so that his vessel came round on a new course to bring it alongside his stricken consort on the far side. Bohemund was shouting instructions for grappling irons to be thrown so that the burning ship could be hauled close enough to get the warriors and crew off, aware that he had little time, for if he had by his actions slowed that fire-spewing dromon, it was far from ineffective.

Over the water he could hear the shouted commands to replace oars and oarsmen, to get under way with what they still possessed on a ship that could only have one aim, to close with him and perhaps once more use that Greek fire to set his galley alight. The desire to escape of those he was seeking to rescue did not aid him; some of the rowers jumped too soon, to fall between the closing hulls and be crushed or drowned. The Normans, however, even with roaring flames so close to their backs that their surcoats were being singed, showed great discipline, obeying Bohemund’s command to clear the side and at the same time restrain those in hazard because of their panic.

Although Bohemund only realised it when they had got clear, what saved them was the way the two galleys came together in a far from gentle crunch, which swung the burning vessel right across the prow of the dromon and that prevented it from getting close enough to once more employ that deadly flame-throwing pipe at a range where it could do damage. The spout of flame shot out as before but it died in the water well away from Bohemund’s galley. In seeking to manoeuvre for another attempt, while again avoiding the danger of catching light itself, the Venetians gifted those seeking to cross to safety the time to do so. As soon as the last man boarded, Bohemund’s master pushed off using boathooks, enough to get his oars into use again so they could speed to safety.

Robert could see three burning galleys, the flames that consumed them rising into a now sunlit sky, black smoke billowing too as the stores they contained inside their hulls went up. Yet what was most hard to bear were the screams of men being burnt alive, oarsmen trapped below and those warriors who delayed too long on the deck. Not that they were gifted a release, for they had only one way to douse themselves and that was to jump into a sea in which a Norman could not but drown; chain mail alone, even if they could swim, was too heavy to allow them to float and would drag them to the bottom.

Keeping him safe was that pair of galleys into which had been loaded the crossbowmen, originally intended for an aggressive role that had, thanks to Geoffrey Ridel and his speaking trumpet, added to a far-carrying voice, got between him and the enemy. With the longer range of their arrow bolts, added to their deadly accuracy, as well as by judicious and sparing use, they were able to hold off the pair of Venetian ships seeking to break through in an attempt to close with his flying ducal standard.

Apart from that he was and felt useless, but he could see that in other quarters his men were giving as good as they got; not every Venetian vessel was equipped with Greek Fire and it now appeared that those who did carry it had used up their supply, for no more of his vessels had been set alight for some time. Added to that, his preparations had not been entirely wasted and if one of his galleys could get alongside an enemy the grappling irons were doing good service to force them together at either the bow or the stern of the larger vessel. That achieved, Normans had both the courage and the skill to get themselves up his hooked ladders onto the enemy decks and fight there, and if they could not prevail, due to the disparity of numbers and the constrained area of combat, they could at least occupy the Venetians so that other galleys were allowed to close and support them.

That was what Bohemund was about, not least because he had on his own deck now double the number of fighting men, a tempting target for an enemy dromon and their archers. Casting his gaze around for a way to occupy them, he saw a line of lances strung across an enemy deck, shield close to shield, with just enough room between for their broadswords to do their deadly work. Behind them stood another conroy with their teardrop shields laid flat to cover themselves and the heads of the men in front, nullifying the attempts of the archers to rain down arrows upon them. His arm, in which he now held a huge axe, shot out.

‘Master, steer for the tiller of that dromon.’

Even if he looked doubtful — the man wanted no more than to set his prow for safety and have his rowers bend their backs — he had long since reasoned that to question the orders of this Goliath was to invite a blow from that axe that would split him in two. As he issued his commands he could hear his giant doing likewise, making sure there were spare lances available, setting the grappling irons for use and arranging the ladders so they could be swiftly employed.

‘The stern is higher than the deck amidships,’ said Ligart, as they came close. ‘These ladders of your father’s will be too short.’

‘Archers,’ Bohemund replied calmly, causing both men to kneel and defend their bodies as he quietly answered that problem. ‘Hook two ladders together and they are more than enough.’

Coming under the high stern protected them from the archers but their approach had not gone unnoticed on deck; there was a large and vocal party of Venetians waiting to oppose their boarding. Their attempt to discourage Normans by leaning over the taffrail and shouting imprecations at them was not only useless; it proved, for many, to be fatal. On the command, Bohemund and his double quota of warriors dropped their shields, stood upright and, after a slight pause, slung their lances. It was a drill they carried out daily, in the same way they rehearsed fighting on foot and mounted, so there was little wastage. Each man, in that short time they took to aim, had picked a victim, fixed that person for an instant before casting their lance. So many of their weapons found some flesh it almost cleared the stern, while the remainder, those who avoided a lance point, were so in terror of the sight of those who suffered wounds that they fled.

‘Irons!’ Bohemund yelled.

The grappling irons snaked over the now near-empty stern and the sheer weight of the subsequent pull had the galley crunching into the decorative fretwork hard enough to smash it to kindling, this as whoever commanded the defenders rallied them to contest the boarding. The ladders followed the meeting of hulls and within a space of a few breaths, swords and axes swinging, the Normans swarmed up with enough vigour to get more than half of them on to the poop, where their actions cleared the way for the remainder.

Bohemund led the way and with his reach and chosen weapon proved the most deadly. The deck planking was stained already from those thrown lances but that was as nothing to what followed — great spouts of red blood and gore, which shot forth as flesh was rent asunder by his axe, this added to by swinging broadswords in powerful hands on the end of massively muscled arms, while in maintaining close contact they made it difficult for the archers to fire at them for fear of hitting their own.

That security diminished as, moving forward, half pace by half pace, they began to drive back their opposition, which necessitated shield cover again, their progress slowed as more of the enemy came to reinforce the defence. Bohemund could see above their heads and if he only had half an eye — the remainder of his vision too busy at his killing, the only result of an axe strike — it was obvious they were winning their fight, while the party of Normans he had come to help were driving from the bows towards the mainmast.

Less cheering was the sight of two Venetian dromons bearing down on them from the shoreside, a development that had Bohemund stop to let the line in which he was fighting go on, it closing automatically to cover for his absence. A thud obliged him to quickly raise his shield, for they were still at the mercy of those archers; one of their arrows had just missed him and was now quivering near his foot. The feeling of anger at what the Venetians had done with their false truce, which had been with him and no doubt every one of his confreres since the first alarm, boiled up, and he rushed to one side where a line of taut ropes lashed round cleats set into the ship’s bulwarks snaked upwards.

The swinging axe, honed and sharpened the day before in preparation for the coming battle, sliced through them like twine. He had no idea what his action would achieve, it being born out of frustration more than thought, but the yells from aloft indicated he had achieved an unexpected result, that confirmed when he spun round to see a body, one of the archers, his bow still in his hand, descend in flaying fall to slam into the deck. A glance aloft showed the boat in which they had been placed was now upended and hanging by one set of lines, not the many needed to keep it level, with other archers hanging on to anything they could get hold of and crying out for help.

That act alone doubled the number of his fighters, for now his men had no need of overhead cover, the result an increase in pressure that pushed back their enemies to a point where Bohemund found himself staring down a hatch, crowded at the bottom with unarmed men, who, when they moved fearfully away, set up a clanking sound. They had to be rower slaves, each one chained and thus no threat, so, calling to Ligart and two other lances, he shot down the companionway and into the gloom of the lower deck, where he sought another hatch cover which would, when lifted, take him below the waterline.

The stink of the bilge water stagnating the ballast rose to greet him and, breath held, he dropped down into what was a storage area for the things necessary to allow the ship to stay at sea, none of which was of interest; what he was looking for was a line of planks that, flat and affixed along the ship’s side, provided a way for the carpenter to inspect for leaks in the hull. It was guesswork to swing his axe at the timbers below, and given the ship had a double skin, both of a decent thickness, it took time to smash his way through. The blow that split the outer hull produced an immediate flow of water; ten more heavy swings of his axe turned that into a torrent that immediately began to flood the vessel.

‘Back on deck, Ligart,’ he shouted as he eased himself out of that torrent and back on to the rowing deck. ‘Pass the word to the conroy leaders to prepare to retreat — we have to get our men back into their galleys.’

Bohemund’s axe was employed again as he made his way back to the companionway, smashing at those timbers that held the ring bolts to free the oarsmen. They were likely to die from drowning anyway, but his action at least gave them a chance to cling to what would soon be wreckage, for if all went well this dromon was going to sink; there was not a carpenter born who could fill the hole he had created. The cries of gratitude were drowned out by chains being drawn through rings, but he would have ignored them anyway, given he needed to be back up on deck to make sure his command was being obeyed.

The need that it should be, and quickly, was looming close; soon the Norman boarders would be in range of arrows fired from the approaching dromons, and if they remained fighting, the crews of those two vessels would get aboard and might overwhelm them. Even more worrying was that water now pouring into the hull, with Bohemund having no idea how long it would take to affect the trim of the ship; for all he knew it could cant over and capsize.

There was no horn to order a retreat, just his towering voice, and in any other fighting force — the Normans were, after all, pressing on their enemies — that command would have been questioned and quite possibly ignored. But the discipline that made them what they were held, and under the control of their conroy leaders they began to step backwards at not much more than the pace at which they had advanced. Bohemund’s height allowed him to direct those who had come from the original galley to withdraw, as well as to tell them why; his Norman French made sure the Venetians had no idea what he was saying.

Getting off the ship while also fighting would have been difficult but for those slave rowers who, now freed, came up screaming that the ship was sinking. At first that merely caused the kind of confusion that eased the withdrawal, but when the sense of what was being imparted got home to the Venetian crew their desire to keep fighting evaporated, creating a gap by which the Normans could disengage. Bohemund’s men piled aboard their galley, and the master, who had seen and appreciated the danger, got clear at ramming speed. As they drew off, the dromon on which they had been fighting began to settle in the water while those who had come to its rescue put aside any idea of pursuit and set to in order to try and keep it afloat. Dragging his eyes away from that sight, Bohemund could look around and what he saw did not cheer him; if he had scored a small victory, it was obvious by the wrecked galleys, added to one or two still burning, that the Apulian fleet had suffered badly.

At the masthead of the ducal galley that flag had changed; it was no longer a command to engage but the one that signalled the need to withdraw. It was, to his son, what it looked like: an admission of defeat.