Son of Blood

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘That, autokrator, is the wing to attack. There you will face Lombards and they are not men to stand against your imperial bodyguard and nor is a woman in command, however large she is in body. If we can take and hold the shoreline, with George Palaeologus breaking out to help me attack the Norman left, then we may be able to force the Guiscard to run for his ships, for he will not risk destruction.’

‘This Bohemund, what do you know of him?’ the Emperor asked.

‘He’s a doughty fighter by repute, a paragon of chastity I am told, and a good head taller than any man with whom he serves. Should he appear, you will not mistake him.’

‘As good as his father?’

‘Better now his sire is an old man.’

Alexius was looking at the map on his table, not wishing to share eye contact with the subordinate proffering this advice and information, lest he show that he had doubts about anything emitted from between those lips. Geoffrey de Roussel was Norman but he was also the least reliable of men, a charming rogue, silver-tongued yet also a stout fighter who seemed able to wriggle out of difficulties that would see other men drawn and quartered.

He had left Italy under a cloud of an unknown nature and, having entered Byzantine service, he had betrayed that trust more than once, declining with the Normans he led to support an army of which he was part, then turning his coat to join the Turks they were fighting. That was an obligation likewise cast off; Roussel had cheated the Turks and set up as ruler in his own right. It had taken Alexius, at the time an imperial general, at the head of another Byzantine force, to catch him and drag him back to a Constantinople dungeon.

Yet here he was in the field again and to Alexius he was a living, breathing and walking reminder of the way he had to scrape the imperial barrel to field an army with some chance of winning, while trusting him now was a case of balancing where Roussel’s interest lay; he had no love for the Guiscard, that was known, and he had only been released to lead a Norman contingent that would follow him where they might not another. Alexius had to presume that the man’s future fortune, at least his immediate aim, favoured loyalty to the Byzantine cause. Putting all that aside, what he was saying made sense, for it was a staple of good generalship to attack an enemy where they were weak, so as to create confusion where they were more steady.

The question that had troubled him was Roussel’s suggestion, the early commitment of his Varangians; such a fearsome unit would normally be held back until Alexis saw a point in the battle where to insert them was to break the enemy resistance, for they had the ability to smash through any defence, added to the power to destroy everything around it once it was rendered disorganised. Against that, he was facing Robert de Hauteville and that required him to be bold and enterprising, given he was such a canny opponent.

‘And you would wish still to mask this Bohemund, Roussel?’

‘I would wish to pit Norman lances against the same. There can be no catching me unawares when I know every horn call of command and you are right to see my task as to hold them, not defeat them, to keep them away from the main arena where the day will be decided — that is until I receive support from Durazzo, by which time I may be able to be a decisive element in the contest.’

An experienced warrior as well as a commander, Alexius knew that the first act of any battle brought on a fluidity that could not be planned for in advance and that applied to his enemies as much as it did to him. The last thing the Duke of Apulia would expect would be his Varangians to be committed to an initial attack, and being aware of their worth, such a tactic might throw him off balance. Added to that, once they had dealt with the Lombards they would hopefully face the flank of the Norman centre and be eager to attack it, their natural valour underpinned by a deep Saxon loathing of their opponents.

‘Even this giant of yours, if he knows of them, will fear my axemen. When they have finished with the Lombards let us hope they will run to kill the same kind of men who made them exiles.’

Watching as the Byzantine army marched into position, Robert de Hauteville knew he was going to get the battle he desired, but just as Alexius Comnenus had knowledge of the hazards involved in battle, so did he. Thus offshore and behind him sat his fleet of broad-bottomed transport ships, while the waters in between were full of their boats. The requirement to tempt Alexius meant accepting a position with certain disadvantages but that did not mean throwing caution to the winds, so a line of retreat was essential. With a keen eye, added to what he had already gleaned from his cavalry screen, he knew that in numbers they were evenly matched. He also accepted that he was facing a general who could match him in skill, for he had questioned anyone who knew anything of Alexius’s previous campaigns and what he had heard was impressive.

In essence the Apulian position was defensive, which left the initiative to his enemies; the Guiscard commanded an army just as heterogeneous as that he faced, albeit better trained. He wanted them to come on to him, working on the assumption that having been hurriedly raised they would lack the kind of cohesion necessary to launch and press home an assault, which would open up opportunities. A good general may be surprised and often is, but the art of command is not to allow that to induce alarm, so when Robert saw the Varangians moving along the rear of the Byzantine army, from their place in the centre around the imperial standard, to their left where they would face the Lombards, he reckoned it a feint to get him to move his lances to assist Sichelgaita and that would be followed by an attack through his weakened centre.

He was disabused of that when they filtered through the contingent that had occupied the left wing and began to come forward at a fast, disciplined jog that did nothing to rupture their tight formation. Opposite Robert the drums began to beat out an aggressive tattoo and the trumpets began to blow, with much movement of men, which only served to reinforce his view that the Varangians would stop rather than engage Sichelgaita and her Lombards and that he was about to be attacked by the forces now manoeuvring before his own position.

‘Count Radulf,’ he said quietly, as the Varangians broke into a run, screaming like banshees and, even at a distance, frightening with their horned helmets and huge gleaming axes. ‘Go to Bohemund and tell him what is happening here, so that he may know his lances might be required. I will send word if they are and he must come with haste whatever he faces on his front.’

From the angle at which he was observing matters unfold Robert had a good view of the way the Varangians hit the line of Lombard milities, their great two-handed axes swinging to first smash the bucklers held up by the defenders, followed by great swipes aimed to sweep aside or decapitate their lances. Their weapons were then raised high to shatter into heads or shoulders left unprotected, this made more dangerous by the fact of the Lombards being generally small; they looked like dwarves when set against those they were fighting, for the Saxons had the height of Normans and the men of Rus had the dimensions, as well as the appearance, of their Viking forbears.

Much time had been spent training his Lombard subjects; likewise the Greeks and the foot soldiers had been taught to stand against Norman conroys seeking to break their line, while the mounted Lombards had been taught the skills of Norman warfare in order to support their fellows. Nothing could prepare a warrior of any race, however brave, for what they were required to do battle with now. Robert recalled that even his brothers had feared to meet these men in close battle and he was being shown why.

First the line of Lombard foot soldiers was in difficulty; then the cavalry rode into action, only to find that people they expected to break from a well-delivered attack with a rigid line of long lances not only stood their ground but advanced to engage. Then the horsemen too began to suffer and it was not the rider, it was his destrier, who could no more stand against a swinging axe than any human; they too went down with great gashes or legs broken or amputated, forcing them back. As he watched, the whole battaile both mounted and on foot began to buckle as too many fell. Looking to his front he saw that for all the activity of marching to and fro, it was no more than that; he had been deceived.

‘Reynard, go to Bohemund and tell him I desire that he take his conroys, as well as his milities, across my rear to support my wife, but he is to seek to mask the manoeuvre. I will secure my flank with the Saracens, who will extend across his front, which will allow his rearguard to follow him.’

‘My Lord, the Lombards have broken.’

The turn to look was slow and studied — never let those you lead see you are concerned — even if what he observed was the unpleasant truth of what he was being told, only worse than the bland word ‘broken’. The Lombards were being routed, fleeing for the shoreline and the boats, a mass of men and mounts in total disorder, leaving a gap between themselves and the Varangians. In their midst he could see Sichelgaita on her huge horse, sword flashing above her head as she used the flat of it to slam into her people. She was shouting, that he could see, but what she was saying he could not hear.

‘Cowards! Ingrates! Would you let a Norman see that you are no match for them, you curs?’

The following expletives were full of spittle, for she was in truth incandescent with rage; being married to a Norman did nothing to lessen her Lombard pride and she pushed her horse towards the line of surf, riding through the routed mass to get ahead of them. Once there she swung face on, and even at a distance her husband saw her as a magnificent sight, standing in her stirrups, sword raised like some Biblical prophet, haranguing her people and miraculously beginning to rally them. In a very short time she got them into some kind of order and then began to bring them back into the battle.

Having stopped once the Lombard defence broke, the Varangians were now reordering their ranks for an attack on the Apulian centre from what was a now open flank. To Robert’s left the Normans, led by Geoffrey Roussel, were beating against the Sicilian Saracens he had sent to his left wing, men who had been personally trained by his brother Count Roger and well knew how to withstand the efforts of Roussel’s conroys, who beat against their line in vain.

‘My Lord,’ shouted Count Radulf, now returned to join his liege lord, his arm outstretched towards the walls of Durazzo. ‘The gates of the city have been opened.’

‘Palaeologus will come out, Radulf, it has been anticipated.’

Robert was still watching his wife as Sichelgaita brought her Lombards in a series of compact lines back into the killing zone, which disrupted and surprised the Varangians, now obliged to wheel back to face them. Sword waving above her head once more, Sichelgaita led them into the fray, and if they suffered for their assault as much as they had previously, they were valiant in the way they pressed on, even as men and horses fell in increasing numbers. He was still watching this with admiration when Reynard rejoined him.

‘My Lord, Bohemund is in position.’

‘The horns,’ Robert commanded. ‘Blow the retreat.’

The high notes rose above the sound of fighting, the cries of men hurt or dying, of horses neighing in panic or pain, the bawled-out curses which aided the efforts of swinging arms and jabbing lances, even the clash of metal on metal and the noise of many things being broken: shields, swords and human bones. Afire with battle lust Sichelgaita still heard and obeyed those horns, quick to lead her Lombards out of contact. In doing so she passed through the line of Bohemund’s lances, men sitting at ease on their destriers, eyes fixed forward on either side of their nose guards, as if the day was peaceful. As soon as the Lombards were through and reformed, Bohemund called forward the crossbowmen, who took up a position before him, each going down on one knee, then raising their weapons.

The first bolts hit the Varangians at a distance from which they could only retaliate by attacking, yet when they did so they were advancing into a maelstrom of short, deadly arrows. If they looked over their shoulder for support, which should have come from the renegade Turks and the Serbians through whom they had so recently filtered, it was not forthcoming. Wisdom dictated that in the face of an assault they could not counter, they withdraw; martial pride and the tradition of the imperial bodyguard made that anathema.

For the majority of the Imperial Guard, all England’s exiles, Robert de Hauteville’s ducal gonfalon was visible right by where he sat on his horse, unmistakable given his frame and colouring, a Norman rag to a Saxon bull, and the Varangians — regardless of their bloodline, for the act became collective — broke into a charging run to get at the Duke of Apulia and slay him in place of the bastard William of Normandy.

That was when Bohemund moved, bringing forward his conroys at a steady trot, lances lowered and couched, a new tactic he had developed in training outside Durazzo to unite the impact of both horse and man. They hit them obliquely and drove them back upon themselves. Axes notwithstanding, they went down in droves, which checked their forward momentum, which might have given them an advantage if the mounted men had still been engaged. They were not; Bohemund’s conroys had broken off contact at the sound of a horn and retired. Not that there was any respite for the remaining axemen; — now they were, once more, at the mercy of the crossbows.

What followed was a savage, silent execution, for the Varangians could not come forward without facing Norman lances and nor could they stand still and survive the arrows which were fired at such high velocity and such short range that they smashed through their hardwood shields. Slowly, inexorably, their ranks thinned, yet still they stood tall and defiant, refusing to retreat. From being a magnificent sight they were reduced to a group of ragged individuals, few of whom were lacking a wound, which brought on the point for which Robert had been waiting. With a wave of his own sword, and the blowing of the horns, he ordered a general advance on the Byzantine line to counter an assault that had been launched to drive in what the Byzantine Emperor thought were two broken flanks, only to realise, once it was in motion, they were in fact holding.

Alexius had misjudged but was not undone; he had miscalculated but that was an experience he had undergone before. That the Serbians and Turks had not moved to support and help his Imperial Guard was enough to bring on an apoplexy, but that fury had to be kept from showing for the same reason as the Guiscard acted as though the opening attack had been no surprise: a general must at all times appear calm and in control. So, discounting them, for if they had yet to move it was not likely they would ever do so, he urged forward his magnificently caparisoned white horse and rode out ahead of his advancing army, to cheers that ran all along his line. He too used his sword to speed the advance and his men moved forward at a faster pace to meet the Apulian enemy, both hosts clashing in a cacophony of human sound.

The leaders were in the thick of the action and both were brave and skilled, the Guiscard confident that he would prevail, Alexius Comnenus the more desperate, for his rule and the Empire were at risk if he should fall. Sichelgaita led her Lombards against the Pechenegs while Bohemund was embroiled with the Byzantine soldiers Alexius had led before assuming the purple. Head and shoulders above his confreres, he was visible to Alexius, who knew that he would never get through to Robert de Hauteville with his familia knights forming an arc around his person, trying and failing to keep him out of the thickest part of the fight.

The Emperor was not wholly without personal supporters, and gathering them he pointed out the very easy to spot Bohemund and set his horse towards him, unaware that Count Radulf, whom he had so charmed in Constantinople that the Apulian envoy had forgotten his purpose, was eagerly manoeuvring to meet him and remove what he saw as a stain upon his standing with his liege lord. Eyes fixed on his quarry, Radulf took Alexius unawares, giving him a blow that nearly knocked his helmet from his head, leaving a gash that soon leaked blood into the imperial eyes.

Half blinded, Alexius turned to meet the Norman and their swords met with a force that sent a shudder up their arms. Seeking to manoeuvre a horse in an area that was fully occupied with fighting men was near impossible and Radulf, having been forced to turn his back on the Emperor, got a deep gash across his left shoulder, though the blow lost force by the fact he was moving away. Time and again they met, only to be forced apart by the need to expose anything vital and that was when Geoffrey Roussel rode into view yelling like some kind of satanic phantom.

‘The Pechenegs have broken and are in flight! Autokrator, the day is lost!’

Alexius either did not hear or chose to ignore what he was being told, but in even acknowledging the arrival of Roussel his concentration was diminished enough to let Radulf through his defence. The Norman sword was thrusting to its full extent and would have ended its travel in the imperial gut if Roussel had not struck it down with such force he nearly unhorsed Radulf. The one-time envoy was now at risk and Alexius swung his own blade to take off his head at the shoulders. Roussel, hauling on his bridle, pulled his horse just enough to allow the blade to whistle past Radulf’s nose and the Emperor was hauled out of the fight, even if it was against his wish.

In truth, blood boiling, Alexius had ignored his duties. All around him his host was breaking up and brave men were dying for want of a command that would save their lives and maybe aid them to fight another day. Wiping the stream of blood from his face, Alexius ordered the trumpets to sound the retreat, telling his soldiers to break contact and seek safety, which was only achieved by his own personal example. The Byzantine Emperor, in Greek the autokrator, rode time and again into danger to personally command his men to fall back and to lead them to a place where they could disengage, the order then to begin the tramp back to the East.

Robert de Hauteville kept up only enough pressure to make them run and soon it was his turn to sound the horns that would bring his host to a halt — all except those trying to capture George Palaeologus and stop him from getting back inside the walls of Durazzo. In the end that was only partially successful, Palaeologus being forced to retire with his brother-in-law, leaving the city without its best defender. Not that the Guiscard was disheartened; with no possibility of relief the fall of Durazzo was only a matter of time, while between him and the imperial capital there was nothing left to oppose him.

So tenacious was the defence, the siege of Durazzo went on for four more months, and while they were fighting to overcome those walls, Alexius, as well as trying to raise another army, was employing that well-worn Byzantine tactic of spreading trouble using a seemingly bottomless supply of treasury gold. Added to that the Apulian traitors got out of Durazzo and across the Adriatic without being intercepted and once there, with money and discontent to distribute, they had fomented yet another uprising, which broke out just after Durazzo fell and the Apulian army had begun to march up the Via Egnatia, with Sichelgaita insisting that Borsa needed help to contain it.

‘Let us see how good my son and heir is,’ Robert barked. ‘He will have to leave off counting my treasure and learn to employ his lance.’

Sichelgaita was not a person to be shouted at without replying in kind. ‘All you have to do is show yourself, husband, lop off a few heads, and the revolt will collapse.’

‘Are you mad, woman? I have Alexius Comnenus by the throat.’

‘What use an empire if you cannot hold your dukedoms?’

‘You wanted Borsa to be tested, this is his chance to show his mettle.’

‘You must send him the means.’

‘I will, Sichelgaita, I’ll send him my best general — you!’

In the end the Guiscard relented and sent Sichelgaita back with two hundred lances under Reynard of Eu; his jest to send Bohemund to command them was not a tease much appreciated. Having garrisoned Durazzo he set off east for Kastoria, the site of another impressive castle and one that he was told had been left in the hands of Alexius’s best remaining troops, with another sturdy and clever commander to hold it. In truth, these men surrendered the castle as soon as he demanded they do so, leading everyone in his army to assume the Empire was collapsing so rapidly it would fall into Apulian hands like a ripe apple in a high wind.

Robert de Hauteville had enjoyed good fortune throughout his life, but there had been setbacks too and, just as he thought he had the greatest of prizes in his grasp, it was snatched from him by both his duty and a greater threat. First, the revolt in Apulia was too dangerous to be left to Sichelgaita, but there was worse to follow. The call came from Pope Gregory demanding that he, as a papal vassal, come to the rescue of Rome, threatened by an imperial army led by Henry IV, bringing with him in his train the imperial antipope.

If it had just been Gregory, the Guiscard would have been tempted to leave him to his fate, but it was not. Jordan of Capua had deserted Rome and sworn allegiance to Henry, creating that combination of foes that always threatened the de Hauteville position. With nothing to fear from Capua the Eternal City might fall and Robert could not countenance Henry in possession of Rome, and nor could he have on the throne of the Supreme Pontiff a pope who would question the validity of his titles and might act to remove him.

Alexius Comnenus and Constantinople would have to wait. Handing over command to Bohemund, with an instruction to keep up the pressure without risking the host, Robert de Hauteville, with a heavy heart, headed back for Durazzo.