by Jack Ludlow
All the noise was coming from there: the Normans were advancing in silence, pennants fluttering on their lances, with not even a beating drum to set their pace, as if to underline they needed no sound to control their pace. Behind them, drawn up on the soft sand of the beach, were the galleys that had fetched them ashore, leaving Argyrus to wonder how the Guiscard had managed it.
Those beacons he had seen in the night would not have been lit for horses; they would only have been fired when Norman cavalry was seen to have gone by. Yet here they were before him, and worse, they were advancing on troops he knew in his pounding heart would not be able to repel them: the Normans knew how to fight on foot and would not break. The choice for him was simple; to watch the slaughter or to prepare to flee, for he had no illusion of what would happen to him if he fell into the hands of Robert de Hauteville.
The harbour of Brindisi was full of boats that had not set to sea since the imposition of the siege. Yet, in bringing the Normans ashore, the Venetians had opened up an avenue of escape. Turning quickly, he faced those wealthy citizens who had made so much from this port, some leading Greek families that had been here for five centuries. If he had a duty not to fall into the hands of the enemy, and not just for the sake of his skin, surely he had, too, a responsibility to deny to the Guiscard as much of the spoils of the city as he could.
‘Citizens, the city is lost. The way is clear to get to sea and I must take it and make for Bari.’
‘The Normans have not yet won.’
‘Then I invite you to stay here and watch them do so. Perhaps the spilling of so much blood will please you as a spectacle.’ Argyrus could see how many his words had already affected, the wiser souls: they were moving swiftly away to gather up their treasure and buy or steal a boat. ‘If our levies break, those on the gates will close them to keep out the Normans and leave our fellows to die against their own walls. If they stand, they will have a more noble ending to their lives, but an ending it will be.’
‘Then, Catapan, send word to them to surrender.’
Argyrus smiled, but it contained no mirth. ‘They have one more duty to perform and that is to allow those of us who must flee to do so.’
CHAPTER THREE
Robert Guiscard called a halt to his advance once he had driven the enemy away from what had been his siege lines and encampment: they were now arrayed with their back to their home city, which had already closed its gates against them for fear of what was coming. Looking at the men before him, desperately trying to form some kind of defence, he realised this presented him with another set of problems, though he could congratulate himself on the fact that his plan had worked to perfection. Right now his entire stud of horses was at pasture in and around Monopoli, with enough men left behind to care for them – not least to ensure none were stolen.
The boats in which he and his force had come south overnight, every trading vessel and fishing craft on what was a busy maritime coast, had been sent back and out of sight as soon as they had transferred to the Venetian galleys, lest Argyrus guess that he had returned. The enemy was in less disarray now but they could not stand against his men and they knew it, while what cavalry Argyrus had deployed were either wounded, dead, without horses or riding completely blown mounts.
‘Why call a halt?’ demanded Geoffrey, breathing heavily and sweating copiously, having run to join him in full chain mail, his standard-bearer at his heels. ‘Surely you have them at your mercy?’
‘I do,’ Robert replied.
If his brother had not posed the question it was in the mind of every man behind him, though few would have dared to voice it. His dilemma hinged on what he was outside Brindisi for, plunder or conquest? For the former it was easy: smash these creatures who stood in his way because they knew they had no choice, then drive to the gates of a city lacking defenders. Those inside would very likely open up, hoping to mitigate what they knew to be coming.
Conquest required a different approach, for, if the Guiscard never voiced it, he was intent on being more than that which he was now. The whole Norman intervention in Southern Italy, first as mercenaries, had been generated by a Lombard desire to regain the rule they had once exercised by kicking out Byzantium: the dream had been an independent kingdom. That as a vision was dead, broken on their endemic inability as a race to agree on a leader whom they would all be prepared to see crowned, made worse by a string of treacheries stretching over many decades: they fought and betrayed each other with more resolution than they ever brought to warfare against their common foe.
Could it be a Norman dream? The first Count of Normandy was a Viking raider bought off with the title and land by a Frankish king struggling to contain Norse raids that had bitten so deep into his territories they had frequently threatened Paris. Rollo established a line that might one day aspire to the purple – rumour had it that William the Bastard had designs on the Saxon crown of England: the present holder, his cousin Edward, was childless and, given his piety, likely to remain so. Other Norsemen ruled in Denmark and Norway. Here in the Mediterranean there existed an even greater prize, a possible Norman-ruled realm and, beyond that, tottering, an empire that had, in the last three hundred years, lost two-thirds of its territories to Islam.
To conquer Constantinople would require every resource available; to massacre the defenders of Brindisi would bring on a satisfying effusion of blood and would lay to rest all the frustrations of the long months of siege. To sack the city would keep happy his own men – they were, no doubt, already imagining what was to come: gold and silver to fill their purse, as much wine as they could consume, women to violate at will, their menfolk slaughtered – and perhaps the children would suffer both. They would amuse themselves roasting babies before their mothers, castrating men and stuffing their genitals into the mouths of their just-raped daughters, in the process creating among those who survived – for there were always somehow survivors – a lasting hatred.
He could tear down the city walls and break apart the harbour moles, sow with salt the fields for leagues around on which the place depended for food and cut down the vines and olive trees, leaving behind him nothing but an empty barren littoral and a bay devoid of life or purpose. It had been done in the past by conquerors of more renown than he, but that would not serve his long-term goal.
‘Geoffrey, go forward and ask whoever commands to come and parley.’
His brother had enough of the de Hauteville brains to discern very quickly what Robert was about. ‘You will have a riot in your own ranks.’
‘Look at the soldiers before you, Geoffrey. Do you see Argyrus?’
‘No.’
‘So tell me what it is they are going to die for.’
‘Their city.’
‘A notion they might have advanced behind those stout walls. Out here in the open, where their fate is certain, it is perhaps one they might reconsider.’
‘Our men—’
Geoffrey did not get a chance to finish that, as Robert barked, ‘Leave the men to me. Are you going to do as I ask or must I seek another envoy?’
‘One day, brother, you might ask too much.’
‘If it is this day, so be it.’
Such was the Guiscard’s height that even Geoffrey had to lift his head to look into his blazing blue eyes. They, on either side of his helmet nose guard, were unblinking, which told him that for all they were blood, this was not a man to challenge. Geoffrey spun away, called to his standard-bearer, and marched forward.
‘Now that,’ Robert said to himself, feeling pleased at the notion, ‘is going to surprise them.’
‘My Lord, news has come of many boats exiting the harbour.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Robert barked as the messenger physically cowered before him. ‘Tell those damn Venetians.’ The man was already running away from what came next. ‘And tell them if any escape it will come from what I pay them to be here.’
The feeling he had entertained, of doing the unexpected, which he always enjoyed, w
as spoilt by the knowledge that he had failed to instruct the galleys to immediately put back to sea – not that they should have required such a directive, the fools. He was tempted to go to the shore and look out for those trying to escape, suspecting, since Argyrus knew what fate awaited him, that the Catapan would be taking the lead.
But time for that did not exist: Geoffrey was on his way back with a clutch of men around him, an indication that his enemy lacked central direction, and it was pleasing that as soon as they came before him they fell to one knee, bowing their heads – they knew their lives were in his hands, just as he knew that his reputation was such that they would fear immediate decapitation.
‘These are the captains entrusted by Argyrus to command his men,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He did not give anyone rank over another.’
‘A fool as general, then, if he’s not going to take the field in person.’
‘A treacherous toad,’ Geoffrey spat. ‘I request his head to adorn my walls.’
‘Who here is native to the city?’ Robert demanded. Only one fellow raised his head to engage his eye, the rest did not respond. ‘The rest of you, return to your lines, now, I have no need of you.’
Geoffrey gave that shake of the head a man employs when he wonders what in the name of creation is going on, which caused Robert to smile: if even his brother could not discern his intentions, then that was all to the good.
‘Stand.’ The fellow obliged, a slight surprise flickering across his face as, close to the Guiscard, he understood just how large was this famed warrior. ‘Name?’
‘Grenel.’
‘A Lombard name? You say a native, were you born here?’
‘I was.’
‘The other captains?’
‘Are from many parts of the empire, sent here by the emperor.’
‘Then they will pay by mining salt for their loyalty to Constantine. You, however, carry your own fate in your hands. Succeed in what I am about to ask of you and you will live, fail and I will strip off your skin with red-hot pincers.’
Robert paused to let that sink in, using silence to create tension. ‘Go into the city and assemble the citizens as my envoy, then ask them if they want to live or die.’ There was a sudden rasp in his voice at he added, ‘If the citizens want to see their city burn, to witness every stone thrown down before they themselves are spit-roasted, they will close the gates. If they wish to grant to me the title of overlord they will come out with the keys. Clear?’
‘Yes, sire.’
Geoffrey was not sure whether to be impressed or angry. Brindisi had never had any suzerain other than the holder of an imperial title since the time of the Romans. They had been especially difficult as sometime allies in previous revolts, more like a city-state of antiquity, finding it difficult to maintain internal cohesion with their mixed populations, never mind consistent support for insurrection. In truth, they were interested only in their own prosperity, bending with the wind, allies if matters were going well but quick to desert the cause of freedom if Byzantium reacted with force.
‘A warning, Grenel! I have to satisfy the men I lead, who have suffered assaulting yonder walls. Much will be asked of the worthies of Brindisi in wealth and a great deal of the lesser citizens in comfort, the womenfolk especially. But what they lose they may be able to recover under my guiding hand, so tell them not to hide their gold or their daughters. Now go.’
The Lombard captain ran off and Robert looked out to sea, where the Venetian galleys were plying their oars at attack speed, in pursuit of the clutch of boats seeking to sail away to safety. He stood between his enemy and his own army, over five thousand men in number beginning to swelter as the sun rose. He needed to convince them that he was right in his approach. That he was about to address them became obvious when a cart was fetched on which he could stand and, ever mindful of their welfare, parties had also been despatched to bring forward what food and drink had not been purloined by the surviving horsemen from Brindisi.
‘Eat and drink all of you,’ he cried in his stentorian voice, once he was high enough to be seen by all, one which had addressed them many times before, using Greek, the most common language to all assembled. There were Normans too new to his service to understand, but he would just have to trust those longer in Italy to translate for him. ‘I want you content and not sour-bellied, and mark this, it is you who do so, not those wretches between Brindisi and us. They must stand and sweat with nothing to ease either throat or stomach.’
Robert watched as that instruction was obeyed, trying to sense their mood, which could best be described as suspicious. Not one of his men, from the captains of his mounted conroys down to the lowest pikeman or crossbowman, was other than wary.
‘Now, you all know me to be a devious bastard, do you not?’ That got a roar of good-humoured agreement. ‘Well, I still am, nor am I about to change.’ His arm swept out towards the city walls. ‘Over there is a city at our mercy, a place that refused to open its gates when we first appeared before the walls.’
There was nothing good-natured about the shout that statement engendered. It was full of imprecations and promises of blood to be shed and revenge to be exacted. The citizens of Brindisi could hear it and they would be shaking in their sandals.
‘So it deserves outright sack, with its citizens, those that survive our wrath, bonded into slavery.’ That would not be disputed, Robert knew, and he was not disappointed, waiting till the shouting died down before speaking again. ‘But I have offered them their lives and freedom.’
If the reactions had been loud before they were screams now and no longer aimed at the people of Brindisi, they were aimed at him. Robert grinned, deliberately provoking even more abuse, and waited until that expression began to cause doubt among those listening, enough for him to hold up his hands and command silence.
‘Now why would a devious bastard like me do that?’
‘You want everything for yourself, Guiscard?’ called a voice.
His response was a loud and carrying laugh. ‘You know I am only good for four women at a time, fellow, and there are thousands in there.’
‘Then let us at them,’ called another.
‘No one has answered my question.’
‘I will answer it,’ shouted Geoffrey.
Robert held out his hand to raise his brother up and Geoffrey, once aboard the cart, turned to face the crowd.
‘It is because, not only is my brother a devious bastard, he is greedy too.’ The agreement was as loud as all that had gone before. ‘He will not be satisfied with just this one port city – he wants Bari and after that the biggest one in the world, Constantinople itself.’ He turned to Robert. ‘Tell them I am right.’
‘Listen, my friends, if I have my way every one of you will leave this place with a full purse and an empty sack between your legs, but the walls will be intact and those fellows cowering behind me will become my soldiers as much as you now are. Up the coast is Bari and one day I must take that, a task greater than this we faced today, for it has stood for five hundred years without being subdued. But more than that, over the Adriatic is Romania, the land ruled by the corrupt arseholes of Byzantium. They have no brains, no balls and no ability to command armies, but I do, as I have commanded you.’
He had them now, he knew that: they were close to silent.
‘What they do have is so much wealth that it would buy a thousand Apulias, enough to bury us so we would never see daylight again: gold, jewels – the spoils of seven hundred years of bleeding the fabulous East – and women, think of the women: perfumed creatures just waiting for a proper man to saddle them and show the poor fools what they have been missing with their girly husbands. They have an emperor who is a fool, a man who needs potions and a troupe of naked dancing girls before he can get hard, and even then rumour says he is flabby. Gold, brothers, diamonds and pearls, soft breasts and thighs, and land, masses of land, everything a man could desire.’
Robert had been shouting, he needed to in ord
er to be heard, but he had the ability to make it sound soft by comparison to the bellow he came out with now. ‘What they don’t have, brothers, is a good enough army to protect it. Me, I have an army that can take it away, every last coin and field.’
Lances and pikes were raised as high as the voices, but Robert knew he had to bring them back to earth, though it took an age to get them to listen.
‘You Lombards and Italians of mine, these are the people who have sat on your necks for centuries, bled you dry and kept you from enjoying the fruits of this fertile land.’
‘Careful, brother,’ hissed Geoffrey, ‘for we are not much better.’
That such a remark was true did not make it palatable; if there was one person who could get carried away by the flaming oratory of Robert de Hauteville it was the Guiscard himself. His face was alight until Geoffrey said that, but it changed to fury, quickly replaced with concern.
‘It won’t be easy, brothers, and it will be a long march. You do not have to look far from this place to find those who would stab us in our back ribs, and they must be put in place before we can set foot in Romania.’
‘Your fellow Grenel is coming,’ Geoffrey said.
Robert looked at him as he approached, the question in his eyes, the answer just a nod that had him addressing his army again. ‘Brindisi will surrender to you, and I think so will those poor buggers who came out to fight.’ More cheering greeted that. ‘I will now go into the city to accept the capitulation. You will make ready to follow me. Brothers, we have a victory.’
‘Mostly over simple minds,’ Geoffrey remarked, his quiet tone drowned out by loud cheers.
‘If there were no simple minds, brother,’ Robert growled, ‘there would be no cities to conquer. Everyone would stay at home and mind their hearth. Now, do you wish to join me?’
