Son of Blood

CHAPTER NINETEEN

If Bohemund commanded his father’s army, he did not command the resources required to sustain in the field. At first, this did not constrain him; he continued the advance and inflicted several defeats on the Emperor, as well as the Byzantine forces that Alexius managed to cobble together, taking control of Macedonia and moving on into Thessaly and near to the border with Thrace. Yet it was here he found he lacked the support that would have allowed him to press further forward; indeed some of his best lances were being drained away to help his sire, underlining the fact that the provinces of Apulia and Calabria were proving difficult to pacify, while the Saracen contingent had returned to Count Roger in Sicily.

If the ducal attention was fixed first and foremost on his domains, matters further north did not do anything to ease Robert de Hauteville’s concerns, which further impacted on his son. News filtered through from Durazzo that Henry IV was no longer prepared to be the Emperor-elect; he had entered Rome with his army, chased Pope Gregory into the Castel St Angelo and was awaiting a synod of high clerics that would agree to his being crowned with the diadem of Charlemagne. Instead of supporting Bohemund with money and men, the Duke of Apulia was busy raising a host at home with the intention of rescuing Gregory.

Both father and son also faced the effect of Byzantine gold: as much as money was generously disbursed to suborn the Apulian rebels, it had been used to finance the position of Henry IV to the tune of half a million gold pieces, both entities able to draw off the Guiscard from his intentions towards Byzantium. In contrast, the army led by Bohemund was being starved of funds and that led to discontent, which in turn dangerously lowered morale. Surveying his forces before the city of Larissa, Bohemund knew it lacked the power, in both numbers and in spirit, with which it had set out from the Adriatic coast. Yet he was still confident; opposing him once more was Alexius Comnenus and he had lost every battle since and including Durazzo, so it was therefore safe to assume his troops were never happy when facing an enemy to whom they had so regularly had to grant victory.

A good general learns from such defeats and Alexius had extracted much upon which to ponder at the two victories Bohemund had inflicted on him at Yannina and Arta; his foot soldiers could not stand against the Norman charge, so much more powerful now that they used their lances couched instead of loose — when the point made contact with a shield, it had behind it so much weight and power that no man could keep his feet, so his infantry line was being bowled aside rather than beaten back by bloody slaughter.

To counter that, Alexius lined up his foot soldiers at the base of a steep hill and now it was he who stood on the defensive, knowing that to progress at all, and given the state of his forces, Bohemund would be required to attack. At the sound of the horns the Byzantine infantry, under the command of their captains, began to step backwards onto that slope, though keeping their face to the enemy so that they would come on. This the massed conroys did but by the time they reached their enemy they had retired enough of a distance that the Normans were forced to ride uphill, which took all the momentum out of their charge. This allowed the shield wall to maintain its footing, despite repeated attempts to break it down.

Beating against such a static wall was a waste of effort, but worse was to follow. As they fell back, the Norman cavalry under Geoffrey Roussel attacked and used that same slope to increase their speed and to hit Bohemund’s men with real force. With the host that his sire had led at Durazzo, this, for Bohemund, would have been a setback but no more. Outside Larissa they were not the same; the spirit that had animated them, already low, was so further depleted by the need to give ground that it was wholly gone, dissipated with time spent in marching and fighting, the sheer misery of campaigning, which always diminished the fighting power of an army, as well as the feeling of being neglected. Where there had been rumblings of discontent, that now manifested itself in a desire not to throw themselves into danger and after a fruitless day the Apulian army was obliged to surrender the ground to the Byzantines.

Then there was money: an advancing and successful army will not complain for the lack of the pay they have been promised, for plentiful pillage mitigates the grievance and none were more given to that feeling than Normans. To a man, these knights had come to Italy as mercenaries; they did not fight for Apulia or loyalty to Duke Robert but for their own personal gain, while the conscripts that the Guiscard had raised from his domains, lacking pay and plunder, wanted to pack in fighting and go home to their previous life. Being static brings such desires to the fore and, in judging the condition of his forces following his setback, knowing as well that to advance would be foolhardy, Bohemund knew he needed coin and lots of it to quiet their grousing, so he called together his lieutenants and ordered them to hold their positions while he returned to Brindisi for that purpose.

‘And if Alexius attacks?’ asked Count Radulf, voicing an opinion held by his fellow battaile commanders.

‘He lacks the strength, Radulf, and he too must remain on the defensive given the quality of the men he leads. If he did not, we would not have been allowed to retire from Larissa and we would not be secure in our present lines.’

Looking around the faces that filled the ground floor of the manor house he had taken over as accommodation, Bohemund found that none would hold his eye, yet if he felt their mood to be less than even he hoped, there was nought he could do to alter it. These were not men to be lifted by a rousing speech; they had seen too much fighting and he was not fool enough to appeal to anything of a personal nature — even if he had good grounds to feel he was respected as a commanding general it was not an emotion they would show.

‘I do not go just for the money to pay everyone, but for reinforcements, too.’

‘Your father has other concerns, Bohemund,’ said another of his lieutenants.

‘He will not readily give up what we have taken here in Romania.’

‘Perhaps, Bohemund, Borsa will grant you the contents of his purse.’

At one time, only a few months past, these men would have laughed at Radulf’s jest; now they looked grim and in truth it had been delivered in a sour voice.

‘On your honour, hold until I return, that is all I ask.’

No sooner had Bohemund left than Geoffrey Roussel appeared under a truce flag; Alexius had spies in the Apulian camp that told him of the departure of his opponent. Roussel, being Norman himself, knew that the men the de Hautevilles commanded had only one object and he came with the means to satisfy it, or at least the promise. Before their general embarked for Apulia his lieutenants had agreed the terms by which they would accept Byzantine bribes, had collected their sacks of gold coins and were occupied leading the men they commanded back out of Thessaly. Alexius followed them, and now thoroughly demoralised it took no great effort on the autokrator’s part to recapture Macedonia and push the remnants of the Apulian army back to the Adriatic shore.

Gold was not the only article Alexius had with which to raise the stakes against his enemies. To get those Venetian dromons to sail to Durazzo and take on the Guiscard’s fleet had cost the Empire dear — a waiving of their tax burden; now he needed to offer them more, and being a wise fellow he knew which key to turn. The Doge was offered trading concessions and even a section of the imperial capital through which they could import and export goods without duties. That, worth a fortune to tempt Croesus himself, was enough to send the Venetian fleet south again, carrying a well-armed complement of soldiers, to retake Corfu and besiege and recapture Durazzo, this while the Duke of Apulia was marching north towards the Leonine City with the largest host seen on Italian soil since the time of the legions of Ancient Rome.

Bohemund did not accompany him, depressed by the fact that everything they had gained in Romania had now been lost, furious that some of the men he had trusted to stay near Larissa were now back in Italy, part of his father’s army marching to meet the new installed Emperor Henry, having been forgiven for accepting the Byzantine bribes. He retired to his sister’s castle of Lecce, where Ademar, the good Marquis of Monteroni, had made his home and which was close to his own fief of Taranto, that subject to a flying visit. This was a part of the world in which he could curse his father and fate with impunity, for even a son who loves and respects his sire can often be baffled by his actions, or to be more honest, the lack of them.

There was confusion about the Guiscard’s intentions and no conversation with him brought enlightenment; if you speculated that he had put aside all thoughts of conquest in Romania for a war against Henry and the title of King of Germany, all you would receive in return was a sly look or maybe a winking eye. Suggest that the campaign against Byzantium be resuscitated and pressed home with even greater force and Robert would nod sagely without ever stating a preference; he had got to his present eminence by being guarded about his intentions and not even for Sichelgaita would he break that habit.

‘How can you trust him?’ his sister asked, as ever suffused with fury when any discussion came up regarding their parent. ‘You are his firstborn son and even though, from what I have been told, you are his helpmeet in battle, he will not declare for you to inherit his titles.’

‘He has not declared for anyone.’

‘He does not need to, his fat sow of a wife will ensure that Borsa succeeds unless our father indicates that his preference is for you.’

The slight shuffling sound made Bohemund turn to look at the door to the chamber; in fact he was thankful to end a conversation too often aired by Emma. There stood Tancred, his nephew, just eight years of age but already showing signs of that height which was a de Hauteville family trait, though at present he was gangly rather than stocky. His uncle knew that to the boy he was an object of much admiration, not least because his mother was wont to sing in praise of her younger brother, regarding his purity, his prowess and his innate kindness as traits to aspire to.

‘Do not tell me, Tancred, I am keeping you waiting?’

‘I have no right to your time, Uncle, but I would be grateful for it.’

‘How polite you are, Tancred; one day you will make a good envoy, a man to send to soothe ruffled adversaries.’

‘I would rather be a soldier.’

‘Well said, my son,’ Emma responded. ‘I am sure, too, my brother would rather be in the manege with you than here in my chamber.’

‘Talking endlessly of outcomes the like of which we cannot know, sister.’

‘I would make you ruler of all Italy if it were my choice.’

Looking at the boy, Bohemund was about to laugh, not in derision but merely because what Tancred had proposed was absurd, yet the solidly serious expression on the lad’s face precluded mirth; he would not comprehend it.

‘And what do you see for yourself?’

‘First to serve as your squire and then to be in battle your equal.’

‘Then,’ Emma said, laughing, because as a mother it was allowed, ‘you had best get Bohemund down to the manege and be busy, for to match him, my son, you have many leagues to go.’

The boy was keen to learn, fighting with a skill beyond his years, which reminded his uncle of his own youthful precocity. They were not alone in the manege; it was full of youngsters honing their skills, for their seniors were off fighting with their duke, Ademar included. As an adult Bohemund would have stood out anyway, but given his height he was an object of massive attention, so he found himself continually surrounded either in instruction or in relating the tales of Norman and Viking exploits going back into the mists of time.

But there were practical lessons too: in swordcraft, the throwing of axes so that the spinning edge ended up embedded in timber, using the new tactic of the lance couched under one arm and how to change grip and throw it so that it found its target. There were ponies of every size needed on which to teach the skills required to manoeuvre a horse with only the knee and a single rein, as well as how to care for a horse without forming a sentimental attachment to any beast.

‘In the end,’ he explained to his wide-eyed and seated-on-the-ground audience, ‘your horses are no more than a means to get you into a fight and, if it goes badly, the instrument by which you can escape. Treat them well, but never let any animal command you, for they will if you are weak. And, if all else fails, what you are riding will feed you when there is no more meat to be had. Now, harness and saddle your mounts, and let us once more learn the calls of the horn.’

When Ademar returned to Lecce it was with a sorry tale: the Guiscard’s huge army had fought no great battle, even though the Emperor Henry, refused entry to the Leonine City, had come south with the intention of meeting the Duke of Apulia in combat; clearly he had no idea that he was outnumbered thirty to one. What saved him from annihilation were the people of Rome, who having denied him entry for months, suddenly decided to surrender to the imperial host, which sent it back north without ever making contact.

He did not stay long; when Henry found out the numbers he faced, a hurried departure became the only choice and he took his own pope with him. Foolishly, Rome, or rather a large proportion of its citizenry, whom Robert de Hauteville had come north to save, having so suddenly and stupidly plumped for the Emperor who had now deserted them, closed its gates against him. Three days went by, which tried the Duke’s patience until he could stand it no more. A night attack on the Flaminian Gate got his troops inside the city, and foolishly those same citizens who had voted to allow in the Emperor tried to contest with the Normans, only to pay a price that saw the streets running with blood. They could not resist and within the day Robert had rescued Gregory from the Castle St Angelo and had him carried in triumph back to the Lateran Palace.

As he had in Illyria, Robert had increased his numbers by the inclusion of Sicilian Saracens and the sight of them alone inflamed the populace, for these men were the stuff of nightmares; had they not sailed up the Tiber hundreds of years previously and pillaged the city? Were they not the legions of Antichrist? If that became a problem, worse was the plunder, for the soldiers of Apulia, of whatever race, had never seen such wealth as existed in the one-time city of the Caesars. While Pope Gregory and the Guiscard were saying Mass in the Church of the Lateran the looting started, and one group, having seen their confreres loaded with their booty, soon set off to match them and the pillage began to get out of hand. If the Saracens were the first to enter sanctified churches and steal the gold and silver ornaments, the Normans, Greeks and Apulian Lombards soon followed until the whole city — churches, palaces, private houses, as well as the centres of the rich guilds of merchants and artisans — was being sacked.

The city rose in fury and this time it was not just the adherents of the Emperor who came out to fight — it was the entire population of Rome, and such were their numbers, in many instances they overwhelmed Robert de Hauteville’s men, who retaliated by setting alight those places they had been so busy plundering. Worse, a mob surged around the Church of the Lateran screeching for the blood of the man who led them and a magnate who had chased two emperors now found himself trapped like a rat. It took Borsa at the head of a thousand lances to break through and rescue him.

‘But,’ Ademar said, concluding his tale, ‘the city was by then alight in so many places the fires were out of control.’

‘Could my father’s men not have put them out?’ Emma asked.

‘Wife,’ came the sad reply, ‘they were the ones who started them. We went north to save Rome and ended up near to destroying it.’

‘My father must regret it.’

‘If he does, it is not apparent; as far as he is concerned, the city got what it deserved.’

The Apulian army had left with Pope Gregory almost as part of their baggage, the destruction visited upon Rome becoming the event to mark the abiding memory of his pontificate. The same people who had hailed him and borne him aloft to the Church of Saint Peter Viniculus eleven years before were now howling for his blood and would have torn him apart had not the Normans, Saracens and Apulians still controlled the smoking ruin of his once magnificent city. As he departed, his rival, the antipope Clement, was making preparations to come into the Leonine City, there to be hailed by a deliriously happy mob.

‘Where is he now, the Pope?’

‘In Salerno with your father.’

‘Then that is where I must go.’

‘Why, brother?’

‘You know why, Emma. To my sire I must stay close, to him I must bring home that I, not Borsa or even amusing Guy, am the man to hold his possessions together when the fate that awaits us all comes to him. I need him to acknowledge me, which he will not do at a distance; and there is too another reason. Our father has an army, the biggest he has ever assembled, which he must employ if it is not to cause him trouble throughout his domains, and there is only one place that can be.’

‘Illyria,’ said Ademar; it was not a question.

‘He has already resolved to return.’ Ademar nodded emphatically. ‘I failed there and that is a stain I would remove.’

‘Take Tancred.’

Bohemund gave his sister a look full of doubt, one matched by the boy’s father. ‘He is too young.’

Bohemund’s reply had Ademar vigorously nodding again.

‘But he worships you, it will break his heart.’

‘Then tell him to work hard in the manege for the next two years, for when he is ten summers in age I will happily have him as my squire.’

Bohemund was right about Robert and his army: to leave so many knights with time to think, plot and revel was dangerous and he had no other enemy to fight than Byzantium. The Western Emperor had his title and had been chastened and scared off; Jordan of Capua, having now regretted bowing the knee to Henry, had, through the ever-diplomatic Abbot Desiderius, made overtures of peace. Though it was suspected that the Guiscard was tempted to wipe him from the face of the earth, the greater prize still had a firm hold on his imagination; his magnificent host, in any case, would be wasted on his Norman neighbour.

By the time Bohemund reached Salerno the orders had gone out; the Apulian army would return to Illyria and this time it would not just be Robert and Bohemund — if it was not something to cheer his illegitimate offspring, Sichelgaita had got her way. Going with them would be Borsa, his younger brother Guy, as well as their mother. Pope Gregory himself blessed the proposed invasion in the newly completed cathedral Robert had caused to be built on taking the city, and it was on the steps of that church Robert made a pronouncement to his firstborn son.

‘We have a proper papal blessing, Bohemund, for Gregory has termed what we are about as a crusade to bring back to the Mother Church those Greeks who have strayed from obedience to Rome. In such a cause, how can we fail? We are crossing the Adriatic and not coming back. I have promised our pontiff he will soon say Mass in Latin and in Santa Sophia.’

If Robert de Hauteville had a near-permanent advantage, it was that his enemies never seemed to learn. His first task was to retake Corfu for the same tactical reasons that had previously existed, though this time it was better defended, especially in the naval sense, with a combined Byzantine and Venetian squadron controlling the Corfu Channel. Also against him was a run of bad weather that trapped his own fleet in Butrinto for several weeks. When he finally emerged to do battle he was up against those same problems that had existed off Durazzo — ships too large to overcome — and so he was soundly beaten twice in two days and forced to retire with his ships battered and leaking, while the losses in men had been even worse.

So confident were the Venetians, who made up the bulk of the combined squadron, that victory had been achieved, they sent off a body of fast-sailing sandalions to carry the good news to Alexius and Venice. Even with ships near to being wrecks that was a foolish thing to do when fighting the Guiscard; those departing messenger vessels did not escape his attention and nor did he struggle to discern what intelligence they might be carrying. Many an ordinary commander would have struggled to raise the enthusiasm required for another assault, but that did not apply to Robert de Hauteville and once more that luck which had attended him all his fighting life resurfaced.

Not only had his enemies assumed him beaten, they had taken out of the fight those ships the Apulians most feared, the dromon-like galleys which had pummelled them previously. Having been at sea for a year, waiting for and then fighting the Apulians, they had bottoms covered in weeds and were in need of careening to deal with that, as well as the worms that, left to burrow, would rot their hulls. Prior to careening, in which the vessels must be carefully hauled over to expose one side of the hull then the other, it was necessary to remove the ballast — the weight that kept the vessel stable at sea.

Thus the dromons were sitting high out of the water when the men on board spotted the supposedly beaten Apulian fleet leaving Butrinto for another bout. Unable to raise anchor, for in any kind of sea they risked being capsized, they became easy targets for Robert’s galleys — indeed two of them turned over in their Corfu harbour merely because the crews rushed to one side to fight the approaching enemy. This time the Apulians took full revenge for Durazzo: the destruction of the fleet that had ruled the Adriatic was total and without that the island was indefensible.

That conquest completed, Robert, much to the chagrin of Bohemund, gave Borsa an independent command. He was sent south with a sizeable force to take Cephalonia. Hardly had he departed when sickness struck his father’s host. It was not unknown; men crowded in cramped encampments, naturally unsanitary, were ever at risk — how many besieged cities had been saved by such an affliction to their enemies? In this instance the outbreak was sudden and ravaging in its intensity, striking down men in substantial numbers and afflicting the normally strong and robust, not just the weak.

Bohemund fell victim quickly, for such a sickness did not spare leaders, and Robert, fearing for his firstborn and defying his wife, quickly determined to send him to Bari, home to those physicians, the most accomplished in his domains, who had cared for him years before. Before the transport ship departed his sire came aboard to see him, despite concerns that he was exposing himself to the malady. In the last two years of his seventh decade, the Guiscard shrugged off such concerns, sure that he was immune — had he not been visiting the overflowing sick tents for days without succumbing? — and in truth, sitting by the cot of his weak and feeble son he sounded as hearty as ever.

‘You won’t expire, Bohemund, I won’t allow it.’ Seeing his words had not been received as he hoped, Robert added, ‘I wonder sometimes if I do not have a direct line to the Almighty, so lucky have I been, so take note of what I say.’

‘Pope Gregory would not have approved,’ Bohemund hissed, trying as well to smile, though what he produced was unconvincing.

‘Poor Gregory, gone to meet our Maker, eh! I wonder what they made of him in paradise?’

Robert shook his head and sighed. ‘He was his own worst enemy and never ceased to be crabbed Hildebrand even when he was granted the mitre. He could have had me as his protector all his life if he had but asked, yet he could never accept that all our conflicts were caused by his own intransigence, not mine. And what does he end up with? A miserable death in exile.’

‘And no crusade.’

‘A foolish notion, Bohemund, as you have heard me say many times before now. The Byzantines at their height could not hold back Islam and I think any army that carries the banner of Christ to fight them will end up as did Byzantium, dead in the sand.’

‘For a good cause,’ came out a wheeze, followed by an effort to produce a stronger tone. ‘And if you had Constantinople?’

‘That would alter matters, it is true, but I would march into Palestine for land, not the faith.’

‘Father?’

‘Don’t ask me, Bohemund, for I can see the pleading in your eyes. I will tell you now, that I put your mother aside for a necessity. I could not hold my territories without a Lombard wife, but I will also tell you that Sichelgaita has made me as content as a husband can be, which, when you wed, you will find out is not without shortcomings, for women … well, they are what they are …’

The voice trailed off and Robert sat for a moment in silence.

‘I cannot give you what you want, Bohemund, but when I am gone I cannot stop you from trying to take what you believe to be rightfully yours.’

‘Nothing will stop me, bar death.’

‘There are many things that might, God only being one of them.’ Robert hauled himself up, his voice once more booming. ‘But recover, for with what is coming I need you fighting by my side. Let providence take care of the rest!’