Son of Blood c-1

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Then I take it you are not tempted by the great crusade Urban has called for to the Holy Land?’

  ‘I have enough on my hands here and in Sicily to keep me from temptation.’

  Tancred, hitherto mostly an observer, not a participant in a conversation he found dull, as all young men do when their elders talk of past events, suddenly perked up and cut in.

  ‘Given its purpose, “temptation” seems an odd word.’

  ‘Is it? I do not see it as so. You cannot march on the Holy Land without the aid of the Emperor Alexius.’ Bohemund’s face closed up at the mention of that name; it was a reminder not only of his defeat at Larissa but the ignominy that followed, but he had to put that aside; Roger was still talking. ‘And there is also the small matter of pushing back the Turks, which will not be easy.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Bohemund turned to Tancred. ‘I have fought them and they are hard opponents.’

  ‘But worth it if you seek wealth.’

  ‘I never saw them as having much to plunder. If they were staunch, they were also poor.’

  Roger looked confused. ‘Do you not see, Bohemund, that if the Turks are dispossessed how much land will become free for Alexius to distribute, and the only people he can safely give it to are those who have by their fighting taken it from his enemies?’

  There was some satisfaction in the reaction from both of his relatives; now he had their undivided attention as he outlined what was possible.

  ‘Put aside all the talk of Urban’s call to crusade. There are those truly pious who might take up the cause of the cross for their soul, yet there are ten times as many who would see it as a chance to enrich themselves. Those provinces Byzantium lost to the Turks are among the richest they ever possessed and that pales when you include Palestine and the wealth fetched in by Christian pilgrims.’

  ‘Much-abused pilgrims,’ said Tancred.

  ‘Take a pinch of salt with those tales,’ Roger scoffed. ‘I know Urban well and his stories of pilgrim rapine are as likely to be exaggerations as truths.’

  ‘A pope telling lies?’ Bohemund responded, his face alight with a joke he and Roger shared: they had never known one not to.

  This was no terrain for siege towers; it was too uneven and rocky, so any assaults on the walls of Amalfi had to be carried out by a combination of ballista and ladders. First the great stones were hurled to seek to create a breach or to take off the higher parts of the walls. The rubble caused provided, albeit with a steep climb, a means to make for the gap and naturally that was where the Amalfians concentrated their defence, so either as a distraction or as a proper attempt at scaling — they would never know which inside — another assault would be launched with long ladders, backed up by archers, with the ballista now employed to send fireballs of oil-soaked hay to clear a space on the parapet onto which the knights must climb.

  Gathered in darkness at a point where the curtain wall ran uphill to where the steepness of the mountain provided protection, Bohemund hushed his men to be silent. His next command was to pick up the battened-together planks that formed a heavy screen that would protect them until they got close to the walls. By weight it took strong men to carry it, for hooked on the back were their climbing ladders. As soon as they made the base of the wall, the archers and ballista would come into play, seeking to drive back the defenders from the parapet. If this was an attack that had been tried before, it now had a better chance of success; the defenders must be going hungry despite their once full storehouses, for after eight months without a single ship being able to enter the port, they should be running out of food and with it the will to keep resisting.

  A three-pronged attack — Borsa was to command the centre before the high breach made by heavy fired rocks, though, as was his way, he would send his knights into combat rather than lead them. At his right hand stood his Uncle Roger to proffer advice — in truth to issue the commands. Never doubting that his half-brother was far from admired, Bohemund had come to realise that there was in fact an even less flattering feeling now amongst those gathered, and it was one which extended to his Lombard and Greek levies. Time had caused that lack of love to turn him into being gently despised, both for his weakness and his vacillation. Such men would rail against a strong hand, yet they preferred it to a weak one, and that applied doubly to his Norman lances.

  Tancred and the knights of Lecce and Monteroni were on that donkey track, having taken the whole of a moonless night to get into position. They too had ladders, but the aim was to only begin their assault if the defenders denuded this part of the walls to support those under pressure from Bohemund and Borsa. Crawling forward with a local who understood the Amalfi dialect, using the reflected light of stars on the water, Tancred had got close to the walls and was sitting listening for the sound of orders being relayed, hopefully followed by departing feet.

  Looking at Amalfi from the sea, there were three mountains, one set back and around which the road split to take a traveller east to west along the rocky coast. Atop that stood a picket with a lit beacon, screened off so it did not show to those in the city. As soon as the man in charge saw the first hint of grey light on the eastern horizon, he slid the screen to one side to show the beacon, hurriedly putting it back once more, which told the commanders in the valley it was time to begin the assault.

  Tancred heard the horns blow and stood to better listen, hauling his local up too, this as Bohemund and those under the ducal command began their advance towards that mound of rubble. The defenders were not fools; they knew that first light was the best time for a besieger to attack and they had their own means of countering that as soon as they heard sounds they thought suspicious, and no host could move without making a noise.

  Using catapults, they sent out their own bales of blazing hay into the still-dark night, which when in the air showed the men coming to assault their walls, as well as allowing their archers to mark their range. Moving forward behind that shield of planks, Bohemund could hear the thud of arrows hitting home as well as smell the stench of burning as the lit points set the wood to smouldering, while over his head flew the burning wads of his own ballista.

  Only darkness gave Tancred a chance; once daylight came his men would be in plain view and at the mercy of archers who would be rushed to stop them moving forward, so as soon as he heard the movement of the defenders he poked his local to tell him what words he could hear from the opposite side of the wall. Men were moving off to face the main assault and reinforce walls, obviously suspecting they would be under greater pressure. It was getting light, though it was only the first tinge, so there was no time to delay: Tancred either attacked or withdrew and he was too much of a Norman for the latter.

  Crawling back, he brought his men towards the wall, carrying ladders, he on one himself, which he set down against the base, his confrere silently running it up hand over hand. That fellow was pushed aside; if anyone was going to be in the forefront of the assault, it was the man who led them, and Tancred scaled the rough-hewn rungs at speed to find that the men who had remained were alert and waiting for him. It takes great courage and skill to fight perched on a ladder, as well as uncommon strength to do battle with someone above your head, but that was what was happening all along the wall as the Normans, who wielded these weapons day after day, used the muscles that produced to engage their less able foes.

  Bohemund was likewise fighting, though he had got a few men with him over the wall and on to the parapet through a combination of fire, archery and sheer bloody ability. They were now fighting back to back to hold that place, but the same imperative was upon him as his nephew. He and Tancred could only maintain themselves if some of the defenders they faced were drawn off to hold that breach in the walls and that was where the attack ran into the sand. Borsa’s men of Salerno had scaled the rubble and were heavily engaged, but the gap was high and narrow, which meant only so many could contest the space and that worked more to the advantage of the Amalfians than the attackers.

&nb
sp; Not that the fighting ended quickly; it went on until the sun was full up in the sky, until Roger de Hauteville was certain that today was not the day of final success. He whispered to Borsa, who seemed to take an age to pass on his advice to the horns, but eventually they blew the several blasts that in their spacing told all the three attacking parties to withdraw. With the men in the breach that was hard enough; they had to back down loose rubble until they could disengage.

  Bohemund needed the crossbowmen to create on either side of him a barrier of deadly bolts that could pierce chain mail, so he could get onto his ladders and back to terra firma. Tancred and his men, who had never made the parapet, had the less than simple task of creating the time to abandon their weapons and, using the sides of the ladder, to slide to safety, recover lances, swords and axes and to run far enough to get out of arrow range before the Amalfian archers arrived, with the only thing protecting their exposed backs their teardrop shields.

  Trudging back to their tents there was no despair in the Norman camp; this was a day in which they had not triumphed, but in siege warfare there were many more of them to set against the one day of victory. They had suffered losses and wounds, but so had the defenders, both in numbers and in morale, for while the besiegers sat around their campfires would talk of the success to come, the Amalfians would be considering how close they had come this day to defeat.

  Borsa held his place as those who had fought for his standard plodded back to their encampments, as if he was a great warrior accepting the accolades of those over whom he held command. There were many who did salute him with swords to their nose guards, but all knew there was no respect in it; it was a gesture, nothing more. Once everyone was back and the wounded and dead had been recovered by truce, he took himself off to pray, leaving his three relatives, who were themselves God-fearing men, to seek to glean from what had happened an avenue to end the siege.

  EPILOGUE

  Amalfi never fell, for as news came of the great host forming from all over Europe, intent on sailing to Constantinople, many minds were concentrated. For some it was the prospect of absolution from sins, for amongst Normans, regardless of how many times they confessed their sins, there were those who could recall deeds of a very black nature indeed — transgressions against God, such as the defiling of churches and the torturing of monks, that might stand outside the writ of a priest to pardon. They might burn in hell!

  More potent, as Roger had indicated, was the prospect not just of wealth, but of land; a high number of the mercenaries who had come to Italy were younger sons of large families full of sibling brothers — their sires of Normandy bred well — and they had seen the demesnes on which they had been raised go to the elder of the family while they got nothing, hence the need to come south; that was what had brought the de Hautevilles and most, if not all, of their confreres.

  The hankering for a landed possession of one’s own was strong in them, yet as they looked around the prospect of gaining any where they now resided was slight — it was in the hands of others. The final strand was plunder, which was becoming harder to find in a terrain ceasing to be the troubled polity of years past; it now had an air, the present upheavals notwithstanding, that denoted a country in the process of settling. Judgements bounced off fantasies, but there was no doubting that in the East there was fabulous wealth to be gained for those lucky enough to be in place to grab it.

  Added to that they were warriors, highly trained, and they knew if they were fighting now and had many times previously it was a diminishing role; much more time was spent in the manege than the field. And so grew a groundswell of belief that it was time to move on, to look for pastures rich and new; all that was missing was the spark and the leader. Not the least of the lances who thought that was Tancred, who had the ability to work on Bohemund.

  ‘What more can you gain in Italy? You have all that you can take and your uncle stands between you and any further advance.’

  Tancred asked that time and again; indeed it became a refrain, this while he made no secret that he had ambitions of his own. Heir to Monteroni and Lecce and also a vassal of Taranto, he was in line for a truncated inheritance, and while he admired Bohemund and would always put his lance at his disposal, he knew that for him there would be no great conquests lest they crossed to Illyria, and his suzerain lacked the means to either cross the Adriatic or remain there.

  ‘Do you recall what Count Roger said? There are conquests to be made in the East, lands to be taken back from the Turks and the Holy Places to liberate, and Pope Urban has promised absolution of sin for those who take a vow to do that on the cross.’

  Bohemund was tempted, but before him was a city ever more close to capitulation or sack and it was hard to turn his back on that, for to do so would imply that Amalfi had defeated him. Yet as word came of those who were, as of this very moment, marching towards his own Adriatic ports, as well as the numbers and titles, it was just as difficult not to admit to temptation. Loyalty to Roger held him back, but it was Borsa who provided the proverbial straw, for the Duke of Apulia was never comfortable with his giant of a half-brother around; indeed it was rare for them to speak and even more so that they should dine together.

  To sit young Richard of Capua at his right hand was an insult to his uncle, the Great Count; to fawn over the boy drove that home and had Bohemund glaring at him, for the intention was as clear as a pikestaff. If it was only rumour it was one easy to give credence: Borsa, once the city had fallen, was lining up this army he had before Amalfi to turn to retaking Capua, where he would reinstate Richard, albeit as his vassal; the drip of the words of Tancred, sitting nearby, suddenly had more and deeper resonance. Where now could he ply his lance? Only, it seemed, in the service of a man he despised! For once less abstemious than was customary — the thoughts he was having preyed on his mind and resolution — he decided to speak where normally he would have remained silent.

  ‘I am obliged to ask if it is true, Borsa, that you intend to give young Richard back Capua?’

  ‘I am minded to listen to his pleas that I should, yes.’

  Bohemund fixed the youngster with a glare. ‘I hope you do not expect it to be easy if my half-brother leads.’

  ‘Nephew,’ Roger interrupted, ‘this is not fitting.’

  ‘Perhaps, Richard, I should gift you Capua, for I am sure to be able to do that while-?’

  ‘Not many would have you as suzerain!’ Borsa shouted, for once stung out of his usual complacency.

  ‘Whereas,’ Tancred piped up, ‘none would choose you.’

  ‘Remember who is vassal to whom.’

  ‘A convenience, Borsa,’ Bohemund responded, ‘and one that will need perhaps to be corrected.’ His half-brother gave Roger a meaningful look, which irritated Bohemund. ‘You cannot hide behind an uncle all your days, like our father, and much as I do not wish it to pass, he will not always be there to protect you.’

  ‘I can hold my own.’

  ‘If you mean your pizzle, well all men can do that, but a sword is another matter.’

  ‘Bohemund,’ Roger interjected. ‘These are words better left unsaid.’

  ‘Until when, Uncle?’

  ‘Till the time, perhaps,’ said Tancred with a meaningful look, ‘when words turn into deeds?’

  ‘You talk of deeds, do you? One day I have a deed that requires to be performed-’

  ‘Borsa!’

  Roger barked this, and if he did not say it, in his eyes he was advising restraint, for words once uttered could not be withdrawn. He had overseen an uneasy peace between his two nephews and sometimes had been forced to tell one or the other they had to accept things they would rather deny; it had ever been fragile, too easy to spin into a fight to the finish.

  ‘No, Uncle,’ Borsa said in a silky voice. ‘Let it be known that yes, I, the Duke of Apulia, Calabria and Sicily, will put Richard back on his Capuan seat.’

  If he had been looking at his uncle instead of Richard, Borsa would have seen that Roger
was displeased at the mention of his being Duke of Sicily. It was true that the title belonged to him; Roger had never denied it and had even had him as a guest to tour an island that was, in theory, his domain. But he did not rule, nor could he, and if he tried it would mean war; the fact that Roger was his vassal was one rarely mentioned in public, for the very good reason that he only held his ducal title because his uncle supported him. It was the message sent at Bari and it still held.

  ‘From which I might choose to dislodge him.’

  ‘You will suffer if you do, Bohemund, as you should have suffered many times before.’

  ‘When you have the means I invite you to try.’

  ‘I have them all around this tent,’ Borsa growled.

  Bohemund drained his cup of wine and stood up. ‘Do you? You think them loyal, when they are here for their purse. If they had a better prospect, they would desert you in a blink. It is sad that you do not know how much you are despised.’

  ‘Do not put it to the test,’ Roger asked, though without much passion.

  ‘I must,’ Bohemund replied, his face sorrowful. Then he looked at Tancred, who stood immediately. ‘And let me say, it is your continued good health that obliges that I should.’

  No one disputed that Bohemund had the right to call for the horns to be blown and the only one who might have stopped him from addressing the host once assembled was Roger, and he was sick to the back teeth of what he had been obliged to do these last ten years, well aware that if he possessed a still-living son of his own instead of daughters, matters might have been very different. Borsa’s raising of his ducal title rankled, and when he was asked to intervene, that was his demand. That his nephew give up the title and free him from vassalage. Roger had always suspected that Borsa saw him as a less than stalwart friend and perhaps even as an enemy; that was what he called the Great Count now.