We had been assigned small but fleet-footed Arabian horses and spent most of our time scouting and carrying messages. Our new weapons and armour had been allocated by the quartermaster of the Arsenale. We carried circular shields of crimson, with Venice’s winged lion in the centre, and the standard marine’s weaponry: lance, sword and bow. In addition, as Englishmen fond of the short seax, I had bought us short daggers from a Venetian merchant. He called them a ‘pugio’ and told me they were what Roman soldiers would have used as a side-arm. They were shorter and thinner than our beloved seax, but they sufficed and gave us the comfort of having a weapon of last resort in our belts.
We wore leather tunics, which we covered with chain-mail corselets and conical helmets. There were plumes of ostrich feathers for knights and officers, which the Doge had brought from Egypt in vast quantities. I had lost my fine leather boots in the pirate attack, but had found a Venetian cordwainer to make new pairs for me and my companions. It did not take the Doge long to change my name from ‘Englishman’ to ‘Grosso Stivali’ – Veneto for ‘Big Boots’. I heard it more times than I care to count.
‘Grosso Stivali!’
‘Yes, Serenity.’
‘You should be able to see Zadar from the top of the pass ahead. It is about fifteen miles beyond the summit. Ride to the top and, under cover of darkness, approach the city. I want a full report first thing in the morning.’
‘Yes, my Prince.’
As I rode away from the column with my companions, we could hear, slowly receding behind us, the distinctive commotion of an army making camp.
Soon there was peace.
It had been some time since we had enjoyed the comforts of the open spaces and the tranquillity of nature. For months we had lived amidst the bustle of Venice, a confined environment surrounded by water. The Domenico was even more cramped and oppressive, with over a hundred men in a space the size of a village longhouse. Even our island refuge of Bisevo was small and restricted, bounded by leagues of open sea. Now, for the first time in a long while, we could ride through open country with far horizons of flora and fauna. Eadmer and Wulfric in particular – neither of whom was happy in a maritime world – felt particularly invigorated.
The scenery along the coast was spectacular: tall jagged peaks of white limestone and, lower down, large forests fringed by rich farmland. It seemed like good land to cultivate, with cold winters and hot summers, but plenty of moisture from the stormy Adriatic, which lapped its shores.
When we reached the crest of a long ridge of hills to the east of Zadar, we could see the city in silhouette against the low setting sun. Although it was winter, the sun was warm and the Adriatic glistened on the horizon. All seemed calm, with the city about to settle down for a peaceful night. It would be the last such night for many poor souls.
We paused for darkness and rode as far towards the city as we thought was safe. The ground sloped gently, but steadily, to the sea. Soon the rough stony terrain turned into fertile soil in which vines, olive groves and citrus trees grew. We avoided any sign of farmhouses and kept off the roads and tracks. Toste tethered the horses in a small gorge, hidden by undergrowth, and each was given a nosebag to keep him quiet. It was an almost full moon; we had to be careful. We took off our armour and boots and put on the kind of small leather slippers preferred by ladies at court – a tactic my mother had told me was favoured by my grandfather, who was renowned for his prowess at war-by-stealth.
As we got close to the city, it became clear that news had reached the citizens that the army of the Doge was approaching. It was not unusual for a city’s gates to be barred so late at night, but the number of sentries patrolling the walls and the fact that the farmsteads of the hinterland and the peasants’ hovels under the shadow of the walls were deserted meant only one thing: Zadar was ready for a fight. The harbour was empty of ships – they had been sailed away, probably lashed together and manned by skeleton crews safely out at sea.
We could see that Zadar sat on a small peninsular of land which had the shape of a thumb projected into the sea. Its walls surrounded the entire city but on three sides rose out of the sea, so a land-based assault was only possible from the base of the ‘thumb’, a narrow strip of land only 200 yards wide. It would be a very treacherous assault.
Eadmer was very blunt with his assessment.
‘Assuming the defenders have good archers and plenty of stones and hot oil, a frontal attack will be suicidal.’
I looked at Toste and Wulfric, who clearly agreed.
‘Let’s hope the Doge has a plan.’
Our return journey was uneventful. By the time we returned, we found a flurry of early-morning activity. The Doge had ordered the camp to be struck ready for the march to the city. The weather had changed overnight. A cold wind was blowing from the sea and rain was beginning to fall.
For once, Ordelafo addressed me by my name.
‘Sit, Harold of Hereford. What have you seen?’
I gave my report in as much detail as I could.
‘Good. You have done an excellent night’s work. Now go and get some rest. You have a few hours. We will leave soon, but you can catch us up later. We won’t attack until tomorrow.’
‘Serenity, may I offer a view?’
‘As long as it’s helpful.’
There was a look of surprise and even concern on the faces of those close to the Doge. I had come to realize that his general staff was run strictly from the top, with little or no opportunity for debate – and certainly not for dissension. But I thought it was important that I express what I assumed was obvious.
‘Serene Prince, if you intend to attack rather than besiege the city, it will be hazardous. The walls are thirty feet high, we are not sure how many men are behind them and how good they are and, although considerable, we don’t have a huge force.’
Ordelafo stood up and stretched himself to his full height. He looked at me sternly, then seemed to relent.
‘The walls are thirty-two and a half feet high, and behind them are five hundred and twenty Hungarian archers, and three hundred and ten infantry. There are also at least twelve hundred and fifty assorted pirates and cut-throats. The civilian population is around seven thousand. They will have stones and oil to hurl. The hinterland will have been stripped bare of food, the wells poisoned. They will almost certainly have provisioned themselves for a siege of many months. That’s why we’re going to attack.’
The Doge had made his point. He was well prepared, but I still thought he had not answered my main point: we didn’t have enough men to cover the losses that would inevitably be sustained in an attack on a fortification of the strength of Zadar. Even so, I knew it was wise not to pursue it.
‘Forgive me, Serenity, but I thought it worth raising my concerns with you.’
‘I understand. It would have been wrong for you not to mention it – especially as, when we are ready, you will lead one of the scaling teams.’
Ordelafo grinned at me, and the others around him sniggered. I bowed and turned to go, but the Doge had another barb to deliver.
‘Grosso Stivali, why are you wearing ladies’ slippers?’
There were roars of laughter from everyone. I had forgotten to change back into my boots!
‘Serenity, they were for the approach to the city – a ruse my grandfather used to use.’
‘You English are very strange. The legendary Hereward Great Axe – in court slippers! From now on, we will call you “Dama Stivali” – “Lady Boots”.’
The hoots of laughter intensified, leaving me with no choice but to bow and skulk away with my tail between my legs.
When I rejoined Eadmer and the men, I barked my orders with some venom.
‘Get some rest!
Tomorrow, we lead one of the attacks.’
‘That’s a death warrant,’ was Eadmer’s blunt response.
It took the entire day for the army to reach Zadar, where it immediately started to make camp. Working at an astonishing pace, the sappers and engineers began to assemble the catapults and build the siege towers and ladders. The Doge’s army preparing for war was a sight to behold. Everyone knew his task: pegs were driven into timber, leather thongs were lashed around cross-beams, marines sharpened and oiled their weapons, and cooks skewered carcasses on to spits. The noise was overwhelming, the mood jovial, both helping everyone to keep their minds off the battle to come.
The curfew bell in Zadar sounded loudly about two hours after dark, which prompted the Doge to order that work should cease and that the army should eat. Most armies would be given copious amounts of alcohol on the eve of battle, to help steady the nerves of the men. But not the Doge’s army. He insisted on nothing other than water, believing that men fight better with a clear head.
There was no contact with the city, and no offer of parlay. The assault began at noon the next day. The rain continued to fall and mists rolled in from the sea; the ground was sodden, making it difficult to manoeuvre the catapults and siege towers.
We took our position, just out of range of Zadar’s archers, and watched as huge stones were hurled into the city. Most volleys were followed by the sound of crashing masonry and the terrified shrieks and cries of people hit by the missiles. The city soon responded in kind. Stones and rocks of all sizes landed all around us. Some small ones were stitched into leather bags, which exploded on impact, sending their deadly contents in all directions.
We stood our ground. When men were hit, they were carried from the field and we closed ranks to maintain our shape and discipline. Some were killed instantly, heads taken clean off, torsos mangled beyond recognition, while others lost limbs. Blood and body parts cascaded all around, splattering almost everyone in gore. We stood in stoical silence, save for the brief yelps of men who had been struck and the cries and moans of the injured.
The captains and sergeants steadied the men.
‘Stand your ground!’
‘Eyes to the front!’
‘We’ll soon be over those walls!’
Our passive vigil was suddenly interrupted by shouts going through the ranks and gestures being made towards the sea. Emerging out of the mist were countless red sails bearing down on Zadar’s shore. Within moments, huge balls of fire began to spew from the ships, their trajectory targeting the city.
‘Greek fire!’ cried the men. ‘It’s the Genoese!’
I looked at Eadmer. He looked as bewildered as I did. It was something I had never seen before. But whatever it was, it was causing mayhem inside Zadar. The heavy smoke and the glow of fires burning inside the walls grew stronger and stronger; the cries of anguish from the citizens became more and more voluble. Then came the smell – the dense acrid smell of burning pitch and thatch – mingling with the sweet smell of burning flesh. The city was an inferno.
At last the order came to attack the walls. The siege towers began to be rolled forward, and we followed in their wake. The tower squads were divided into two groups: a small group at the top of the tower, whose job it was to launch an initial attack as soon as the tower reached the walls, followed by the bulk of the men beneath, whose role it was to push the tower to the walls before climbing its stairways to join their comrades in the assault.
The ground shook as the mighty mobile barbicans trundled onwards. The defenders shot flaming arrows into the flanks of the towers, but they had been covered with hides soaked in brine and did not easily catch fire. By the time we reached the bottom of Zadar’s walls, we could hear the roar of flames and the crackle of burning buildings on the other side, as yet more fire rained down from the ships offshore. The screams intensified, the smoke grew thicker, the smells became stronger. Then the towers hit the walls and the assault platforms were lowered. Venetian marines streamed over the ramparts to confront the defenders in vicious hand-to-hand fighting.
It was time for our scaling ladder to be hurled against the wall by the sappers, and we sprinted to its bottom rung. I was about to make my leap to begin my ascent when Eadmer pushed me to one side.
‘I’m the sergeant-at-arms! Let me go first!’
He put his shield above his head and raced upwards, with me close behind and Toste and Wulfric following. I could see men falling from ladders all along the wall, some hit by rocks, some pierced by arrows. Hot oil was being poured over some of the towers; others were being drenched in burning pitch. Men were jumping off covered in flames or had their faces blistered and blackened by the oil. Now the screams of anguish from outside the walls were matching those from inside. This was war – and I was in the thick of it.
As we reached above halfway, our ladder began to bow towards the wall from the weight of men it was carrying.
‘Keep going!’ was the cry from below us.
Eadmer’s shield had several arrows in it by the time we reached the top. It had deflected several rocks, one of which smashed his shield into his shoulder, forcing him backwards on to my shield. I thought he was about to go, but he held on and, with a heave from my shoulder, I managed to help him straighten himself.
When we jumped on to the ramparts, to our immense relief our section was relatively clear of defenders, but many more reinforcements were streaming up the ramparts’ stairways. Some of our marines had already cleared a few of the stairs and were fighting down at ground level. I looked around to see if there was a quick way down.
The city was ablaze. Every building seemed to be on fire, with people running around in panic, some trying to douse the flames with pails of water, a clearly futile exercise. Women and children screamed. The heat scorched our faces – even up on the battlements – and lower down it must have been like a furnace.
Wulfric grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me round. Several defenders, looking very similar to the Paganian pirates we had fought on the Domenico, were running towards us. I rushed forward to lead our challenge, with Eadmer at my right shoulder. We slashed and cut, just as we had done so many times in training.
My instincts took over, the elixir of battle replacing the cold blood of fear. I swung wildly, bounding forward with big strides. One man got my blade through his stomach, another plummeted from the ramparts, felled by a blow from my shield, and a third was sliced at the top of his shoulder as I hacked at him. His lamellar hauberk took a lot of the impact, but blood oozed from the gash all the same.
My next opponent began to back away, colliding with his comrades behind him, who stiffened his resolve. They stood firm as I moved forward. But as I raised my sword, a huge ball of fire hit the ramparts beneath their feet and exploded, consuming them in flames. Two men seemed to disappear, incinerated before my eyes. Two more were thrown over the wall into our oncoming army, and several more fell back into the city. The heat was intense as I stepped back and covered my eyes. When I looked back to the place where, moments earlier, several men had been standing on the sturdy wooden ramparts, there was just an empty space with the remnants of charred and burning material scattered over the ground below.
The others were at my side, and I could feel them holding me. I looked at them and could see the concern on their faces.
Eadmer shouted at the men, ‘Get water!’ before helping me to the ground.
My face started to sting and then the feeling escalated into pain. I reached towards my face, but Eadmer grabbed my hand.
‘No, your face is burned.’
The battle noises were subsiding; the city would soon be under the Doge’s control.
‘Hal, lean back.’
Wulfri
c and Toste had returned with water. Eadmer took off my helmet, pushed me backwards and began pouring water on to my face.
‘You’re lucky. You have lost your eyebrows and most of your moustache, but your helmet and ventail protected most of your face. Your lips are singed and your cheeks look like baked apples, but you’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. Not a pretty sight for the girls, though – you might need to find an old hag who’s not so fussy for a while.’
I tried to smile, but it was painful. The rain that had persisted all day was still falling, and every drop bit into my swollen face. Eadmer looked to Wulfric and Toste.
‘See if you can find some cloth. We must cover his face to stop any infection. Be careful down there – the fight’s not over yet.’
I looked down at Zadar below. The Doge’s marines were moving down its narrow streets, putting an end to whatever resistance they found at the end of a sword. The old, women and children were being corralled into small groups, surrounded by guards. Some were already being led out of the city. The few buildings that were not alight were being torched. Soon, Zadar would be no more.
Word began to circulate that the Genoese navy had found the pirate fleet far out in the Adriatic and sent it to the bottom in flames. Not only had Ordelafo destroyed the pirates’ safe haven, he had also wrecked the tools of their trade.
The Doge had had a plan all along: it later transpired that he had struck a deal with the Doge of Genoa many weeks earlier. He had paid the Genoese a huge geld for their services and had agreed to keep out of their trading area west of Sicily. The amphibious strategy was a masterstroke; his victory was complete.
I spent the night in the field infirmary. Fortunately, it was several hundred yards away from the camp, far removed from the revelries of a victorious army. The no-alcohol policy the Doge had insisted upon before battle did not apply afterwards, and the celebrations were as expected – raucous and exhaustive. Even so, Ordelafo still imposed rigid discipline: no looting and no rape. Both were punishable by execution.
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