Conquest c-3

by Jack Ludlow

  There had to be a central directing mind on those galleys, given their tactics changed speedily. They formed up one behind the other, a manoeuvre which took time, but not a concern to them, given they were not short of that commodity. Also, smoke began to rise from their decks, clear indication that if they could not take their enemies they would be content to set them alight with catapulted fire pots. Then the lead vessel, once more employing oars, began its attack, this time the prow aimed at the gap between Roger’s ship and the one just ahead.

  ‘They are going to try and cut us out.’

  Roger was at a loss to know how to counter this — luckily Ridel was not. He called the ship ahead to slow and increased his own speed, so closing the gap that the galley entering it risked being trapped, which would leave it, near stationary and isolated, at just as much of a risk as any of the Norman fleet. This being noted, the approaching prow swung towards the stern, to the now greater gap behind. The master of that vessel was too sluggish to react, failing to tighten his canvas and increase his rate of sailing and, worse for him, the second galley in line swung even more to get astern of her.

  Ridel was close beside Roger now, wanting no more shouted disputes, whispering his opinion. The only way to aid what was about to be a stricken vessel was to come about, something which the whole fleet would be obliged to do, a manoeuvre so dangerous they might all end up being lost. He could see, in Roger’s face, how he was struggling for a way to overrule him, when the first of the catapulted fire pots came flying towards them. Hitting the deck the clay smashed, sending flaming wads in all directions.

  There was no time to think of rescue: fire was the ultimate fear of every sailor, the means by which a ship could be utterly and speedily destroyed. Every hand needed to sail the ship, the only people who could bring aid to their threatened consort, were now engaged in trying to save their own vessel and they were shouting to every soldier aboard to help them. The master, guessing what was coming, had seen fit to fetch up and wet some spare canvas and this was now thrown on the multiple fires, aided by every bucket on the ship being used to fetch aboard seawater.

  Almost alone at the stern, Roger de Hauteville watched as two galleys closed in on the ship behind, one crossing the bow so close to him he could reach their deck with a cast lance, the other disappearing behind the stern. They sent no fire into a ship they were intent on taking and lines snaked out with grappling irons to fix their prey and lash it to their sides, too many to cut, men pouring across the divide even before they were pulled close, to face a small knot of a dozen Norman warriors lined up to oppose them.

  The result was swift and bloody: his men went down, taking many with them, but under such an assault they were soon surrounded. He could no longer see them, and hardened warrior as he was, Roger felt the prick of tears for men who had survived so much only to fall now, wondering, as he rubbed his eyes, if some of that emotion was brought on by self-pity.

  Ridel’s response was immediate: trumpet in hand, nearly drowned out by the cheering coming from the vessel taken, he called on every ship to close up to him so they were practically able to touch each other over the divide. Taking their lives in their hands, Normans from the inner vessels leapt onto the outer decks, there to form a line formidable enough, they hoped, to get them safely home. It was nip and tuck, fighting fires, attempts to board, avoiding lances thrown and the remains of the crossbow bolts, thrown swords and even rocks from the ballast, Roger and his men had to fight all the way to the harbour entrance of Reggio. Only then did the galleys of Messina give up and only then could it be considered that in only losing one vessel they had got off very lightly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Guiscard was outside the walls of Bari when he heard of Roger’s Sicilian debacle, completing a ferocious but successful year-long campaign to recover Apulia, fighting against a Byzantine army that had not only retaken several important coastal cities but had also besieged Melfi, mostly due to the fact that if Argyrus had held the titular command, he had been wise enough to defer to the professional general sent from Constantinople to aid him.

  Having relieved his own castle he had taken back the cities one by one, his army swelling as he gained success after success, yet he was only back where he had started, holding most of Apulia but unable to finally eradicate the forces of the Eastern Empire as he had in Calabria; he might have to do the same thing all over again, if not this year, then at some time in the not-too-distant future. Argyrus was still busy plotting, and such was his skill that no one could ever guess from where the next threat would come.

  Yet there had been a subtle shift during this campaign: what had helped save the Guiscard’s position, especially in the relief of Melfi, was the way many of the Lombards had rallied in numbers to his cause, though he was unsure why. Was it because they thought him less of an evil than Byzantium, or was it that he had not only married a Lombard princess, but that she had borne him a son and heir?

  Probably more important was that Sichelgaita was at his side as often as her condition would allow, as commanding a presence as he with her golden hair and telling stature. Just as significant was their relationship, obviously a contented one. Robert had found in Sichelgaita a soulmate who was as capable of being as coarse as he — nothing amused her more than a bedcover-lifting fart — while she had a laugh to shake the stone walls of a castle; Jericho would have fallen to her with one good jest: refreshing after the delicacy of Alberada.

  Even with Lombards to aid him, Bari, into which the enemy army had retired, still held out and the region would never be at peace while the city remained in Greek hands. Yet Robert could see no way to take it, standing, as it did, on a long, narrow promontory sticking out into the Adriatic, with massive sea walls difficult to attack, which left only one place open to a land assault: the easily defended wall and great gate that cut off the peninsula from the mainland. To attack that was to seek success at its strongest point, not only in the height and formidable nature of the walls, but also in the sheer number of men that would be committed to holding it.

  ‘Starvation is out of the question, brother,’ Robert said, ‘even if you block up the water gates the city walls extend to the seaward side and they can be supplied from there, so that’s a problem best put aside.’

  These ruminations were being imparted to a still-chastened Roger, who had endured much ribbing for his Sicilian fiasco. With Apulia subdued, in possession of an intact and successful army, and with many months remaining of the campaigning season, Robert had left enough of his foot soldiers behind to mask Bari and keep Argyrus quiet, then marched his lances straight to Reggio, insisting that, given the aid of Ibn-al-Tinnah, conditions were still favourable for an assault on the island, this time a proper invasion.

  ‘Do you trust him?’ Robert suddenly demanded, moving from his gloom regarding Bari, back to Sicily — hardly surprising given the two brothers were standing on a hill overlooking the Straits of Messina and the long shoreline opposite, backed by mountains, the snow-capped peak of a smoking Mount Etna clear as a backdrop.

  ‘I think he will betray us as soon as he feels he hasnothing to fear from Ibn-al-Hawas. He showed no indication to stay with our cause after Cape Faro, did he? He scurried back to Catania.’

  ‘He is safe there now; it is we who have to worry about al-Hawas.’

  That emir had abandoned his Catania campaign as soon as he heard of the arrival of Robert’s army, being no fool. Such a powerful Norman host posed a grave threat to the likes of Messina, and if a port and city of that size fell to them, then even his city of Enna, far distant in the interior mountain fastness, would not be safe, while in the lands Roger had already ravaged he would struggle to hold on at all. Al-Hawas had gathered up ships to patrol the shoreline around Cape Faro all the way to the Milazzo peninsula, where he expected them to land. Roger, for one, was full of caution.

  ‘For now al-Tinnah is on our side,’ Robert insisted, overriding his brother’s concerns. ‘That might not c
ontinue, and all history tells us that to invade Sicily without an ally is doomed, so we must make use of him and damn the difficulties.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more than to go back,’ Roger growled, still smarting from the rebuff of Messina, ‘but not to Cape Faro. An opposed landing there could be as bloody as our forced retreat, and we can hardly sail an entire army of two thousand lances over the Straits without being observed.’

  ‘So you have an alternative?’

  ‘Let us go in waves, say of a tenth of number, from one of the small ports, and choose a more constrained landing place where we will not be expected. There is a tiny bay I came across just a couple of leagues south of Messina-’

  ‘Came across?’

  ‘I have sailed the Sicily coast these last weeks in order to get to know it properly. After what happened…’ Roger did not finish that sentence: he did not have to. ‘It’s big enough to land a couple of hundred knights at a time. The crossing is some four leagues by my reckoning.’

  ‘Defendable?’

  ‘Backed by high hills with only one narrow ravine leading inland. Twenty knights could hold it and it has an underground stream running down one side to provide fresh water. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Do we want to be that close to Messina, brother? That is where al-Hawas is strongest. Further south is al-Tinnah’s land where we can come ashore without interference.’

  ‘And go where, Robert? Clamber up Etna to warm our feet at the crater? If we are to invade and stay we need to find and defeat our enemies quickly, as well as a place that can support a fortress we can reinforce at will.’

  ‘Like Milazzo?’

  Roger flushed to be reminded he had abandoned a perfectly good location for that very thing for what appeared to be nothing but avarice. To return to Milazzo by land, with al-Hawas and every man he could muster standing between them and it, would be difficult and risky, even more so by sea.

  ‘Catania is a port,’ Robert insisted.

  ‘And one we can use as long as al-Tinnah is our ally. But it obliges us to make a long march north to fight. Next you will be telling me that’s something you wish to avoid. You should trust me on this, brother.’

  ‘You think yourself cleverer than me, Roger?’

  Roger responded with a wry smile. ‘I don’t suspect, brother, I know.’

  ‘As an answer that is not very bright given what I have and you do not.’

  ‘It is the only answer you will believe.’

  ‘I am not persuaded your plan is sound.’

  ‘Then, with power, you have lost your insight.’

  ‘To think I named my son after you,’ Robert replied, his face flushed with anger. ‘When was the last time I boxed your ears?’

  ‘The last time I was too small to fight back.’

  Robert stood up and so did Roger, still the smaller of the two, though not by much and, for a moment, it looked as if a blow would be struck, without any certainty as to who would be the first or the winner, for there would certainly be more to follow. Suddenly Robert burst out laughing again, encouraging his brother to reiterate his arguments.

  ‘Let me show you the bay I have in mind. When you see what I am talking about I am sure you will agree. If you do not, well it is your army to command.’

  ‘Ships?’

  ‘Arranged already,’ Roger replied, adding quickly, ‘subject to your approval.’

  ‘To sail from where?’

  ‘St Maria del Faro, halfway between Reggio and Scilla, and if we go in the numbers I suggest it is big enough for the quantity of vessels we will need.’

  Robert walked forward, looking once more at the island over the narrow waters. ‘You have been here for a long time, so I am going to bow to your greater knowledge. But pick a good saint’s day, Sprat, I want as much of God’s grace on my side as I can get.’

  Roger de Hauteville, after a Mass said on the quayside, weighed in darkness aboard just a dozen ships, leading an advance guard of two hundred and fifty lances. There was no moon in this part of May, but with a clear sky they had ample starlight by which to steer, and this on calm waters. The crossing was swift and trouble free, so that he had no difficulty in landing his men off his lead ship before first light, their immediate task to take and hold the approaches. As soon as that was achieved, he disembarked the rest of his command and sent the ships back. Serlo was sent inland to scout ahead and returned to say he had sighted a huge baggage train heading for Messina.

  Should Roger investigate? The landing ground must be held secure for what would follow and his arrangement was to await his brother’s contingent at the very least, and probably the whole Norman host. The baggage train lacked armed protection, but there might be forces close by to protect it, strong enough to threaten their landing place. If there were, he needed to know what level of threat they might portend and how far off they lay.

  In truth and in his heart Roger knew he was looking for an excuse to act on his own and the Fates had gifted him one: common sense dictated he intercept a baggage train, which was probably resupplying al-Hawas. He left thirty men to hold the ravine, knowing, if need be, he could retire through them in haste, then set off inland with the remainder of his lances. Serlo’s slow-moving mule-and-camel train, all of a league in length, was easily caught. A party was sent to cut off their progress and another to the rear to stop them running for home.

  ‘Save the beasts,’ Roger commanded.

  ‘And the drovers?’

  ‘We cannot risk news of our presence to be spread around the countryside.’

  There was no need to underline the meaning of that: they attacked and, in a short and bloody engagement, slaughtered every man leading a mule or a camel, then spent a longer time rounding up their charges, they having fled. Fortunately a laden beast will not run far, and once they were gathered and examined Roger was surprised by the amount of booty they had just taken: not only food, but several panniers carrying gold, all transported back to the beach, which took the remainder of the day, by which time the next contingent of lances had come in.

  Buoyed by easy success and leaving on the beach his booty, Roger set off again at first light, this time at the head of five hundred knights, riding through the rolling hills that led to Messina, surprised at the speed with which they were allowed to proceed, slowed from a canter only when they were required to walk their mounts up the steeper sides of the valleys through which they travelled. Finally at the top of a wooded hill, Messina lay before them, still formidable; yet peering at the parapets they could see no soldiers, not even a skeleton guard, and there was no sign of any of the forces al-Hawas would have mustered camped outside.

  ‘Where in the name of God are they?’ Serlo asked, as, screened by trees to keep out of sight, he, Roger and Ralph de Boeuf, for the second time in three months, surveyed the pale walls of the city, looking deceptively soft and pink in the sunlight. ‘We have not seen so much as a piquet on the way here.’

  ‘Perhaps the earth has swallowed al-Hawas up,’ Ralph said, ‘he being an infidel.’

  It looked as if he might be right: the fields between where they sat and the city, ripe with wheat rippling in the soft sea breeze, were almost devoid of any human life and certainly bare of any military presence. The gates were open and a small trickle of traffic entered and exited through them with no hint of any kind of alarm. It was so pastoral, obviously not one of those inhabitants knew the Normans were even close by.

  Roger replied softly. ‘Much as I think God is ever on our side, I do not believe in miracles.’

  ‘Then what?’ Ralph asked.

  Roger thought a long time before answering. ‘Al-Hawas is expecting us to land at Cape Faro or the northern shoreline. Maybe he has placed every available man there to stop us, knowing he will be forewarned when our fleet sets sail.’

  He then pointed out the waters of the straits, the Italian mainland visible as a hazy blue line, devoid of shipping if you excluded fishing boats. ‘There is not a galley in sig
ht, which means he is not even patrolling the waters off the harbour.’

  ‘Then he has made an error,’ Serlo hooted. ‘Once Robert’s ashore we will have him.’

  ‘It is not unknown,’ Roger replied, with some feeling, ‘for military leaders to make mistakes, and I for one will not make any rash judgements.’

  Roger had been chastened by his previous failure and he was not alone. Yet, Ralph de Boeuf, the man who had served with him for years, was positive. ‘You have a chance here to wipe out a stain and one that will not last. Robert will already have sailed.’

  Roger answered in a grim tone. ‘I have had my pride broken once on those walls, Ralph. Besides, as soon as we are sighted, messengers will be sent north to alert al-Hawas.’

  ‘Roger, you cannot allow one reverse to blind you to such an opportunity.’

  ‘Uncle,’ Serlo protested, ‘we must at least try.’

  Looking over his shoulder, Roger observed what he had with him: five hundred lances, at present resting in the cool of the woods, standing by their mounts to deny them grazing in case they were needed to make a speedy retreat. This force exceeded that with which he had tried to take Messina before, and there were still fifteen hundred more men to come. What gave him pause was that, in his mind’s eye, he could see the image of the bodies he had so recently left below those parapets.

  Badly as he wanted to redeem his reputation, it was not that which decided him to proceed. Even if he did nothing he could not avoid the news being carried to the city that there were enemies outside the city walls; he had been lucky up till now to outrun any of those who must have spotted his lances. But when messengers rushed north, it would likely throw al-Hawas into a panic and one in which he might compound his already faulty dispositions. Unsure of what he faced the Saracen might hesitate and give time for the whole Norman force to invest or bypass Messina. Whatever course was taken the city would be isolated and cut off from immediate support. In time it would fall and he would be vindicated, his vow fulfilled.