by Jack Ludlow
Set against that, Bisanzio had managed to slip out of Bari and Robert suspected he was on his way to Constantinople to seek reinforcements. Even if he doubted he would succeed he had put some ships out in deeper water to watch the approaches, with orders to intercept any vessel making for the port.
‘They ridiculed me, bringing up their most precious treasures of gold and silver onto the ramparts and waving them.’ Robert laughed then, a deep rumble. ‘They do not do that now, do they, so what does that tell you?’
Bohemund had another concern: how they were ever going to get a siege tower close to the walls without it being burnt? Ten had been built, ten had trundled forward and ten had been set alight by jets of Greek fire and there was no other way to surmount the walls, given their height.
‘I want to try to sap,’ he said.
Robert looked hard at him, thinking Bohemund was not a jolly companion, he was too concentrated on fighting to enjoy a jest and he was a mass of impatience, this being his first siege.
‘The city is built on rock.’
‘There must be soft earth somewhere.’
‘Yes there is,’ Robert growled, ‘and you are likely to be buried in it.’
‘I am sick of doing nothing or building towers so that the Bariots can warm their arses.’
‘How many times have I told you not to fret, time is our friend, not our enemy.’
‘I’ll be a greybeard before I see inside that damned city.’
Robert’s heir, Roger, came bursting in, as enthusiastic as a boy of his age should be, soon followed by his doting mother. Sichelgaita exchanged a sour look with Bohemund, one that the father of both boys, even as he allowed Roger to jump on him, could not avoid observing.
‘I take it,’ Sichelgaita said, ‘the great general is still trying to tell you that you know nothing about how to fight a war?’
‘I would not dream of usurping your position,’ Bohemund spat.
‘Can I have some money, Papa,’ Roger cried, ‘for my purse?’
Sichelgaita had been glaring at Bohemund with loathing, but that changed to a maternal beam as she looked at Roger: she doted on the child and was, with a motherly mote to cloud her vision, looking forward to a day when he was a match in height and build for his disenfranchised sibling. Robert was fond of Roger, whom he had nicknamed Borsa for his love of money, not the possession of it but his habit of endlessly counting coins. However, it took no great genius to see if there was an inheritance in his blood it came from his wife’s family rather than his own: Roger Borsa looked like Sichelgaita’s brother, Gisulf – thin, with dull, fair hair and no glint in his eye of anything martial.
‘You always think my coffers are full, Borsa.’
‘Are they not, Papa?’
‘Maybe, I do not know, for I have to go to them often to pay my spies.’
‘Then you must let me tally them for you.’
‘And, my little Lombard, pocket a few,’ Bohemund sneered.
‘If he does,’ Sichelgaita hissed, ‘it is only because he has a right to it! And if you mock, it is because you have not.’
‘Enough, wife,’ Robert sighed.
The Duke of Apulia could silence most people, but not his wife.
‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘You let this popinjay insult your heir and say and do nothing.’
‘It was naught but a jest.’
‘It was a slur.’
‘That it most certainly was,’ Bohemund added gaily: Sichelgaita upset was one of the few things that made him happy. Roger Borsa had turned to look at him and if, in the boy’s eyes, was a kind of pleading affection, it was not returned. His half-brother was looking at him as a fox looks at a caged chicken, a stare that was broken by one of Robert’s servants entering the main tent.
‘Sire, a messenger from Geoffrey Ridel.’
Robert nodded, put his son on the floor, glared at both his wife and Bohemund and turned to face the man who had come in to tell him that a fleet of ships had been sighted heading for Bari, and Geoffrey Ridel suspected, by their lack of flags, they were from Constantinople.
‘Thank the good Jesus Christ,’ Robert boomed, which got him a hard look from Sichelgaita, who did not like the Lord’s name taken in vain when her son was in earshot. He hauled himself upright. ‘I have an enemy to fight that I can deal with.’
Bohemund, ever keen for a scrap, had gone before the messenger had finished his delivery, as if to be on the shore was to see this approaching hazard, which must be many leagues away in the open sea; Ridel, in command, had sent in a small, swift boat to carry the news.
‘You must curb that swine,’ Sichelgaita growled. ‘He is too free with his tongue.’
Robert looked at her wearily: if Bohemund was too free with that, he was not alone. ‘Right now I am concerned that Bisanzio is returning to Bari and if he is doing so in a fleet that means he has brought reinforcements. That I must deal with – and now.’
‘And Bohemund?’
‘Is my flesh and blood, just like little Borsa.’
‘Whom he hates. I have asked you before and I ask you again, send Bohemund away.’
‘Where?’
‘To Sicily, to Normandy or to England. Let him make his way in another land, not here.’
‘He will not harm our child, Sichelgaita,’ he said in a tired fashion, given it was something he was called upon to repeat often. ‘And before you ask how I know, I will see to it.’
‘And if you do not, will his Uncle Roger?’
‘He has told me he will. More than that I cannot do. Now please help me fight my enemies, not my family.’
Bisanzio was the first to admit he was no soldier – which had hampered his efforts to contain the Guiscard. Always having to rely on others for military advice he was never sure if the steps being taken were correct. His plea to the Empress Eudoxia for more troops – her husband was away fighting the Turks – was only part of his submission: the defenders of Bari needed a soldier, a man they could respect to take charge of thwarting the siege.
Stephen Paternos was that man, highly regarded and a proven success, so when he suggested splitting the relief force in two, separating the grain convoy from the ships carrying the fighting men, Bisanzio was happy to agree. Thus, as he approached his city and the Norman barrier, on a strong following wind, he was unaware that the grain ships had been intercepted; all he knew was what he could see, an endless stream of fighting men crossing those plank gangways from ship to ship, forming up in its defence. On the Byzantine decks, the warriors were crowding up from below, likewise preparing for battle.
‘Steer straight for them,’ Paternos ordered, ‘All sail set.’
‘They are stout bottoms, Excellency,’ the captain of the lead vessel replied – his ship was hired and thus he was more careful of its preservation than if it had been an imperial war vessel.
‘Not the ships, fool,’ Paternos barked, ‘the planks joining one to the other.’
‘The other vessels?’ Bisanzio asked, though softly: he did not want to be seen to question the military tactics and so undermine Paternos.
‘Will follow in our wake, that is if the dolts in command of them have a brain.’
The Catapan had met many military men in his time and it seemed they all talked in that fashion, an abrupt delivery that took no regard of the pride of the person being addressed, not something he, being in essence a politician, could do. He had to persuade and cajole, and often he found himself employing such wiles with people he knew were considering betraying the empire. Would there be more now than when he had left for Constantinople? Would the sight of reinforcements, always assuming they could break through, still those seditious voices?
The Guiscard knew the weakest part of his defence line was where the ships were joined, so he had placed them so close that for a vessel to ram its way through would so damage it as to perhaps have it sink in the attempt. Having done that, it would have been wise to also acknowledge that another eye examining the problem might
come up with a viable solution.
The captain of the vessel was clearly in a state of some distress: he could see the gap he was being asked to sail into at full speed and he knew he would not get through without massive damage. More by hand signal than spoken order he was having the sails eased so they were not drawing as tight as they might, thus reducing the way on the ship and the potential destruction. That Stephen Paternos spotted this surprised him, but not as much as what he did next.
‘Tell me, Captain, who would you ask to command the ship if you were suddenly indisposed?’ Seeing the man wondering at the question, he added, ‘We are about to go into a fight, Captain, and I am no sailor. I need to know for the safety of us all.’
‘My mate, the fellow on the tiller.’
‘Call him to us.’
That the captain did, and as soon as his mate joined them, Paternos whipped out his sword and swung it high and hard, to cleave the captain’s head from his body, speaking before the skull had stopped rolling into the scantlings and the decapitated cadaver had fallen over, spouting foaming blood through the open trunk.
‘Set the sails properly,’ he barked at the terrified mate. ‘Do as I command, or you will suffer the same fate.’
His next order, given in a raised voice as the ship picked up speed, was for a division of his forces to be undertaken just before they struck. His men were evenly distributed on each side of the companionway that led below; this he wished to change.
‘This vessel may founder, so we need another, and the Norman barbarians have kindly provided them. Just before we make contact I want half of one division to join me on whichever side of the ship I am on, the rest to remain to defend the other side. Our task is to take one of the Normans’ vessels so quickly we will stop help coming aboard, then detach it from its fellows and create a gap for the rest of our vessels to follow. Now, everyone out of the prow.’
His enemies could not doubt as to what he intended, and they likewise began to ship men from positions in which they would be exposed, denuding the prow of one ship and the stern of another. Paternos, looking at the other vessels in his flotilla, could be content: his junior commanders, good soldiers and long servants of the empire, were implementing the plan he had discussed the last time they were on land. The grain ships might have evaded the Normans’ fleet at sea but, if not, they had drawn them away from where they were really needed: soldiers were more important in this siege than loaves of bread.
‘Brace yourselves,’ he shouted, grabbing a transfixed Bisanzio and forcing him to take hold of a cleat, this as he moved to one side, the men he had ordered to follow doing so just in time to grab at a steadying rope.
The crunch was deafening, the prow of the Byzantine ship rising up like a rearing horse as it ploughed into the planks, brought to halt, timber shattering and splinters flying. By the time it settled Paternos was already on the stern of the vessel he wanted to take, aware and pleased that the second of his ships, without specific orders, had sheared contact with the next ship in line. The Norman tactic did not place many men on each vessel, the idea being that once the point of assault was established they could concentrate; Paternos, by his tactics, had nullified their numerical advantage where it mattered.
Those standing next to Robert de Hauteville heard him swear and it took the loudest shout he could muster to stop Bohemund rushing into what he knew would be a losing battle. He knew, too, there was no need to seal the limits of the Byzantine attack: they did not want to destroy his defence, merely to get through. It was as hard to watch his men go down as much as to see his line ripped open, but, good as they were, they were outnumbered by proper soldiers and in a situation where no quarter was a necessity. Already his mind was moving on.
‘Get the blacksmiths at their forges now, from here to Melfi. I want chains made, stout enough to stop this happening again.’
That, too, had to be said loudly, to carry over the cheering from the ramparts of Bari.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
For the people of Palermo the effect of having a Norman army close by was worse than being under siege: they knew Roger de Hauteville was coming, they just did not know when and, as the months stretched to years, it induced in them a feeling of increasing hopelessness. Appeals to the remaining emirs on the island fell on deaf ears: none of them were of the stature of Ibn-al-Hawas, and besides, they would not agree to elect either a leader nor, after such a string of massive defeats, to any notion of taking the field. Likewise their brethren in North Africa: they were too chastened to have any ambitions in that quarter.
Not that Sicily was at peace: the Normans raided far and wide, plundering what they could carry and destroying what they could not, taking the smaller walled towns, any fortress too formidable could watch their fields burn from their ramparts. Roger’s lances grew fat from the proceeds and naturally his coffers filled with gold as the spoils of war – animals, produce and slaves – were traded for profit, all transactions done through his agent Kasa Ephraim, now reaping a fabulous reward for his earlier support.
That there were frustrations went without saying: for all Roger was acquiring in treasure from the Sicilian hinterland, it would pale in comparison to what would be gained from the richest city on the island as well as one of the wealthiest ports in the Mediterranean. There had been temptation: Pisa had offered him a fleet and an alliance, their part of the plan to blockade the port. Roger turned them down: this was to be a Norman conquest, not a shared one, and besides, a fleet was not enough – for any siege to be decisive he needed Robert’s army.
He knew matters were moving his way when the summons came, the same having been sent to Mauger at Scalea. The Guiscard wanted every lance Roger could spare. The siege of Bari was moving to a climax.
‘You see, Robert,’ Roger pricked him, ‘it is not so bad having Mauger serving with you as well.’
‘True, brother, it gives me someone to loathe more than the family quarrels I’m exposed to. With you arrived I am doubly protected, given no one disputes with me more than you. What a family I am cursed with!’
Roger merely smiled; he had always wanted to ask his older brother questions he knew Robert would not answer, so he had therefore left them unspoken. Here he was moaning about family quarrels – in truth it was the continued griping between Sichelgaita and Bohemund – yet he had a feeling for his relations that he tried and failed to hide. He might have been begged to forgive Mauger but that weighed for nothing. Yet here he was, close to the pinnacle of everything his predecessors had sought to achieve, and he wanted those of his family who remained to be close by when success came.
Roger had come with Jordan and Serlo; Geoffrey of Loritello, looking as if death were stalking him, was present, as was Humphrey’s son, Abelard, looking aggrieved, as he always did with an uncle he considered treacherous. He had called on the two rebellious sons of Beatrix to be with him, and his own child Borsa was present. Robert also sent for his daughter Emma and, most tellingly, for Mauger, whom he claimed to like the least. The Lord of Scalea had only a few lances to add to his forces, so it was sentiment, not a request for military support that had prompted the act.
‘Did you want me for my lances or just to gloat?’ Roger asked.
‘Both,’ Robert replied, honest for once. ‘But I thank you most for the Calabrian ships you brought, for it is at sea this siege will be decided.’
If others saw Robert sitting idly outside Bari they had failed to discern his other moves, not least in his gathering of a powerful fleet. He had his floating barrier, but he also had vessels at sea and in strength – a part of his forces he wanted Roger to command.
‘So, how do we fare overall?’ was Roger’s question.
There was no need for Robert to list his failures, yet he did so: assaults on the land wall that had got nowhere, the endless destruction of his siege towers, the fractious nature of many of his captains, not least his own natural son, while to his rear Apulia was groaning under the cost of maintaining such a
lengthy effort. Then there was what had happened to his boats.
‘You heard of Paternos and what he did?’ Roger nodded. ‘Well, my spies tell me that when it became known he sacrificed the grain convoy to get his troops into Bari there was much unrest.’
‘Your spies?’
‘I have quite a few. The one I rely on most is a fellow called Argirizzo.’
‘Greek?’
‘No,’ Robert scoffed, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an Egyptian.’
Roger held up a hand to admit it was a foolish question.
‘Of course he’s Greek, and a devious bastard at that. God only knows what I will do with him if I succeed and he survives, because I could never trust him.’
Roger was about to respond by saying he did not trust anyone but he held his tongue.
‘I have been sending him funds to buy grain from those hoarding it and using that he spreads dissent, not hard with people being so hungry. It was he who stirred up the Bariots against the loss of that grain. Paternos is seen as a devil and one living well while others starve.’
‘Then why did they assassinate Bisanzio and not him?’
An unknown assailant had cut down the Catapan in the street: even Paternos was suspected, though Robert was a better candidate.
‘Bisanzio was easier to get to.’
‘Did you order that?’ Roger asked.
Seeing the look he was getting, Robert added querulously, ‘It is settlement for William and Drogo.’
‘Be careful they don’t do the same to you,’ Roger insisted. ‘If you instigate the murder of a leader, it will tempt someone to revenge.’
