by Jack Ludlow
Those watching from the walls, content to stay within when the Guiscard was close by, saw him pull on his reins, turn his mount, and, banner flowing on the sea breeze and his knights around him, ride away. The Greeks could pride themselves that once more they had seen off the Norman barbarian. They were safe with their stout walls facing the land and the sea at their back.
‘Bohemund, we are going to become sailors.’
It was a command that surprised everyone and did not go down well with many: his lances were not happy on water, but Robert was adamant that, if Bari depended on the sea for its security, then Normans must match them in that to breech its defences. Objections that fighting at sea was a skill long in the learning fell on deaf ears: Robert would have none of it.
‘You fight on land, you fight on a deck, where is the difference? Does a cast lance not kill over water, does a sweeping blade not cut flesh for the salt?’ He had been brought up within easy reach of the shores of the Contentin, had learnt to fish and swim in waters that froze to the marrow. ‘Damn me, what I would not give for a Normandy oyster now.’
This was said so often Guiscard’s men began to yawn; if they disliked the sea, they hated his enthusiasm and his japes even more. It was as if the years had fallen away, as if he was once again that jest-playing buffoon who had so annoyed William and Drogo. He played pranks that had his men ending up in the water where, if they floundered, they were encouraged to learn to swim. Did he ever stop laughing in these months of preparation? No one who recalled the time thought so: the only peace they had was when he was absent on other errands related to his plan.
All were speculating on what that plan could be, but if the jolly Robert had resurfaced, the secretive one remained: he would tell no one, not even Bohemund whom he loved more than his younger son, disappointingly weedy by nature, given the size of both his parents. Not even Sichelgaita was made privy to his thinking. No one must get an inkling of what he was about, lest the defenders of Bari find out.
The time came to march and Robert looked over the thousands he had gathered outside Melfi. This was Apulia united, the army that would finally kick Byzantium out of Italy. They marched south to Venosa, to the new-built church of Santissima Trinita were lay the remains of his family. There was a sarcophagus now, a walled tomb with painted angels and trumpets to welcome the de Hautevilles to heaven, backed by the blue and white chequer of his house. There he knelt and said prayers to his god and his deceased brothers, asking for intercession from both for what he was about to do.
They knew he was coming: Bisanzio had men working on the defences even if they were, to most minds, impossible to breach. He knew the cunning of the man he faced, was conscious he was weaker than hitherto and that there were people in Bari, even Greeks, who saw the endless conflict as a curse; men whose fortunes had diminished as the Norman advance had cut them off from the interior trade which had once made them rich. They could betray the cause of their own people: gold always appealed to some souls more than race or fealty.
The Bariots had seen the Normans outside their walls many times but never in such numbers, a cause of enough anxiety to have Masses said in every church, so the priests of the Orthodox faith could remind them it was not just stones and hearth they were defending but the way they practised their faith. Let the Normans in and they would bring Rome with them: celibate priests cut off from those to whom they administered, unleavened bread in Communion, a Holy Ghost who ranked equal with God the Father and God the Son.
As another boost to morale, Bisanzio ordered all the treasures of the city be taken onto the ramparts, where the citizens let the sunlight flash and reflect on the gold and silver plate, on religious objects of priceless value. They even dropped gold solidi and invited the toiling Normans to come and get them. This was aimed at Robert, of course, and he emerged from his tent to watch this spectacle designed to mock his pretensions. An accomplished master of the jest himself, a man rarely lost for words, he was not that now. Soon he was within calling distance.
‘Citizens of Bari,’ he shouted, ‘I thank you for taking good care of my possessions. I bid you guard them carefully.’
Now it was Normans, Lombards and Italians, who were laughing; the treasures disappeared, but it was not long before a jeering crowd was back on the walls, bolstered by their faith, exchanging insults with those in earshot. The sight of a fleet of ships, dozens, then a hundred plus, first confused, then it made the Bariots laugh. They were the seafarers, and the promontory on which their city stood would always find access to the Adriatic: history told them it was too long a shoreline to be blockaded — it never had been in millennia and besides, the Normans were not sailors. Was Bisanzio the only one to worry, the only one to recall the mind with which he was in competition?
The first ship was anchored to the northern shore, to a strong jetty — one of two that had made the besieged curious when they observed them being built — the next right alongside it, then another and another. They watched as planks were laid from vessel to vessel, watched as the floating pontoon stretched out to sea then curved round to the south, each with a bridge of planking from one to the next. Still ships came to drop anchor, each one taking station in a line that began to come back to land, until the very last one tied up to the south shore and the second jetty.
Robert Guiscard demonstrated to the defenders what he had planned and in doing so also showed his own army, all those warriors who had been wondering what he was up to. With Bohemund at his side, to loud cheers from his whole army, he walked from ship to ship, never failing, when he could, to look at the walls before him, right round the city, to tell them inside that, for the first time in history, Bari was wholly besieged. There would be no supplies coming in to keep them from starvation, no reinforcements from the east to sustain their resolve.
If Bisanzio knew there were those inclined to surrender, so did the Duke of Apulia and he was a man who knew how to bribe. The first voices raised in Bari were of fear — this was something unknown to them — the next, talk of reassurance as the fighting men reminded them how stout were the walls. But the whispering had started in some quarters that, when Robert de Hauteville offered terms, they would be best accepted if they did not all want to die.
And then he was at the land gate, his herald calling for them to be opened. Bisanzio declined the offer to surrender. The siege of Bari was on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Roger de Hauteville had one guiding principle: never to fight on a field he had not chosen — preferably one in a mountainous landscape where he could narrow the field of battle to suit his numbers, nullifying the advantage his enemies enjoyed in that area. For a long time Ayub had played cat and mouse, seeming to seek the Normans out, then, if he thought the circumstances unfavourable, withdrawing out of harm’s way. So it came as a surprise, while Roger was manoeuvring on the far side of the mountain range protecting Palermo, to find the Saracen army coming forward to meet him. He knew what had tempted the emir to act: he had split his forces to range and raid over a wider area, one part under Serlo, another given to Jordan with Ralph de Boeuf alongside to ensure he was not too rash. Ayub thought he had caught him with only his own contingent of lances, a third of his strength. What the emir could not grasp — he thought as a commander of a foot-bound army — was how quickly the Normans could concentrate.
His stated aim was to destroy the Roman Christians: not to kick them out of Sicily but to annihilate them on the field of battle. Given he had spent so much time without fulfilling that boast his authority was being weakened while his army was becoming disgruntled — and that made him impulsive. So much time and endless marching had been devoted to seeking advantage that a battle he wished to fight on his terms became one he had to fight to keep his authority. Getting to grips with the Count of Sicily moved from being an aspiration to a necessity.
He chose to make good his boast near a small town called Misilmeri, unaware that the system Roger had set up to keep communications with his son
and nephew meant he could gather together his entire force in the space of one day, something he had not bargained for. Ayub never grasped that the Norman raiding horses were not the destriers with which they engaged in battle, so they could still be fresh. Also, Roger was leading men who had become battle-hardened by years of warfare and had beaten the Saracens so many times they held them in contempt. That had nothing to do with individual bravery — they had met and slaughtered many heroic men; it was in the mass they were poor, lacking in both training and leadership.
The latter was paramount: no Saracen general stood in battle with his men: always they sought to direct matters from a position of personal safety and they relied on numbers, not skill. No Norman leader who behaved in that way would have lasted a day. He trained with his men, rode with them, ate the same food and suffered the same privations. When they fought, the man who led exercised close control and if the fight was to be lost the choice was his whether to stand and die rather than flee.
When contact was made, what Ayub saw was that which he expected: a hundred lances in what seemed an exposed position and no foot soldiers on a wide, open field of his choosing, with no river or broken ground on the flanks, so for once he had a chance to overlap their line, sure in the knowledge that Norman strength lay in close-order fighting. Behind them the ground fell away sharply; drive them back a short distance and they would be trying to hold on a downward slope. Emir Ayub was also sure they could not be reinforced: he had scouts out on swift horses who, if they sighted the other sections of Roger’s force, would ride back to warn him so he would be given the choice of accepting battle or breaking off the engagement.
Ayub failed to consider his enemies would anticipate such a move or that they would ensure whatever tactics they would ultimately employ would be kept hidden from him. To track cavalry you must work at their pace and, if you cannot keep them in view, it was essential to follow the dust they created and evidence on the ground of their passing: hoof prints and dung piles. The former becomes a problem in rocky terrain — a scout becomes less sure of numbers, doubly so if those being observed are aware of being under scrutiny. When you do not want to be seen, the first act to create obscurity is to ambush and kill those spying on your movements.
So, when Emir Ayub, second son of the Zirid sultan and a proud prince, drew up his forces for the battle he had waited so long to bring on, he was unaware that the bones of his fast-riding scouts were being picked over by vultures, unaware that on the reverse slopes of his chosen battlefield, behind Roger de Hauteville, sat another two hundred lances he was sure were elsewhere. He expected the Normans to stay on the defensive and arranged his troops to meet that contingency; this time his numbers, with room to deploy, would encircle and crush these heathens.
His first shock, when he set his army in motion, was to find them immediately attacked by a line of Norman lances under the banner of the Count of Sicily, the real blow the point at which he realised that to either side of that line of lances came two more batailles of a similar size. If he had possessed any ability, he would have known that security lay in allowing the two elements to meet, then, in as orderly a way as possible, by sacrificing his leading elements, to disengage the remainder and seek to retire in good order, which he had time to organise. The very worst thing to do was to seek to break off the battle immediately.
In the confusion of horns blowing, conflicting, shouted orders, some men moving forward while others sought to retire, Ayub created maximum confusion. Messengers rode forward to deliver his commands, but he lacked the soldiers who would comprehend and, if they did do so, swiftly obey. Roger led his men into a milling mass of confusion, visiting upon the Saracen levies a slaughter greater than any so far committed. It was almost as if, with no one to tell them what to do, they decided to welcome death. As was customary, when it came to flight, their leaders were in the vanguard. It took half a day to complete the killing.
‘It seems not to matter what they give up to us,’ Serlo said, surveying yet another set of Saracen tents crammed with booty. ‘They always have more.’
While his confreres were ogling the valuables, Jordan was eyeing cages full of pigeons, several dozen in number. Reaching in, he gently lifted out a bird, handling it as he would a very young falcon; they were clearly tame. He then joined Roger at the mouth of the tent where he was discussing with Ralph de Boeuf what this victory would mean for the future.
‘We could test our hawks with these, Father.’
With that Jordan let the bird go and it rose into the sky, circled once or twice, then headed quite deliberately north-west at speed, which had Roger watching it intently until it disappeared.
‘Fetch out another.’
Jordan did so and let it go, only to observe a repeat of the actions of that first pigeon: a couple of circles followed by the choice of a deliberate course on the same path of flight. Roger came to look at the birdcages, then he examined an open chest beside them, one that had been ignored given it held nothing valuable, taking from it small capsules made of parchment, each with delicate ties.
‘Another bird, Jordan, and hold it this time.’ With gentle hands another pigeon was presented and this time Roger laced the small parchment tube to its leg. ‘Now let it go.’
Jordan did so, saying as it flew off, ‘There must be a rich source of food wherever they are headed.’
‘They are going to Palermo,’ Roger replied.
‘Why?’
It was Serlo who answered. ‘Carrier pigeons, of which I have heard, but never till this day seen — a way of sending messages over long distances.’
‘Had Ayub destroyed us this day, these would have carried news of his victory to the citizens of Palermo.’
‘Then can we not use them to send news of his defeat?’ asked Jordan.
It was an idea: Roger had with him men who had enough Arabic and writing skill to compose the message, but would it be believed? An image of the men so recently slaughtered came to him, Sicilian Saracens in their various-coloured garb; yellows, reds, every shade in between and, of course, the black of Ayub’s own North Africans. Right now the locals would be scavenging the battlefield stripping them of everything, garments included.
‘Serlo, Jordan, get amongst the dead. I want strips of every kind of clothing they are wearing, all the colours.’
‘Why?’ asked Jordan.
For once his father was not in the mood to indulge him and his response was sharp. ‘Just do as I ask!’ As they departed, Serlo amused and Jordan chastened, Roger called after them, ‘And dip parts of the cloth in their blood.’
The first two pigeons coming into their home loft with no message was put down to error, probably poor handling, but when the rest came in with tiny bloodstained strips of cloth attached to their legs, all in different colours, there could be no doubt what the message portended. It told the citizens of Palermo that the army they had hoped would drive away the Normans had failed, and implied what was only later found out to be true. Emir Ayub had not just suffered a reverse: he had lost the last hope the city had of their enemies being beaten away from their walls.
His authority shattered, Ayub fled back to Africa, taking what remained of his forces with him, while the Sicilians Saracens had scattered. When no Norman army appeared to besiege them they were confused, but they could not see into the mind of Roger de Hauteville, did not know he was aware of his limitations and had a strong memory of another city he had supposed was at his mercy. Yes, he had broken Saracen resistance — there would still be fights but there would be no more pitched battles — but until he had a proper army he would merely contain Palermo and keep the city on edge, while making sure by constant raiding that his enemies could not reform again. Then, when his brother was free, when Bari had fallen, then Robert would come and, together this time, Palermo would be theirs.
‘But when will that be, Father?’ Jordan pleaded.
‘When the summons comes from Apulia, boy.’
‘You are sure he
will send for you?’
‘Certain,’ Roger snapped. ‘Robert will not want Bari to fall without I should be there as witness.’
Already over a year in duration, the siege of Bari was seemingly going nowhere. Robert was frustrated and irritable, his nature would allow of no other mood, but he still kept himself in a positive frame of mind, even if, at this moment, he was trying to cheer up Bohemund, a favourite son mired in deep gloom. Inside Bari he had support, also he had methods by which information and bribes were passed to and fro, so he knew the exact state of the city storerooms and could thus calculate the time it would take to starve the defenders out. He also knew that opinion within the Greek community was moving in his direction: the rise of the Normans had been so inexorable and over so many years that many now believed their supremacy to be inevitable. Better to make peace than face a bloody end fighting what could not be gainsaid.
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.