by Jack Ludlow
Having stopped once the Lombard defence broke, the Varangians were now reordering their ranks for an attack on the Apulian centre from what was a now open flank. To Robert’s left the Normans, led by Geoffrey Roussel, were beating against the Sicilian Saracens he had sent to his left wing, men who had been personally trained by his brother Count Roger and well knew how to withstand the efforts of Roussel’s conroys, who beat against their line in vain.
‘My Lord,’ shouted Count Radulf, now returned to join his liege lord, his arm outstretched towards the walls of Durazzo. ‘The gates of the city have been opened.’
‘Palaeologus will come out, Radulf, it has been anticipated.’
Robert was still watching his wife as Sichelgaita brought her Lombards in a series of compact lines back into the killing zone, which disrupted and surprised the Varangians, now obliged to wheel back to face them. Sword waving above her head once more, Sichelgaita led them into the fray, and if they suffered for their assault as much as they had previously, they were valiant in the way they pressed on, even as men and horses fell in increasing numbers. He was still watching this with admiration when Reynard rejoined him.
‘My Lord, Bohemund is in position.’
‘The horns,’ Robert commanded. ‘Blow the retreat.’
The high notes rose above the sound of fighting, the cries of men hurt or dying, of horses neighing in panic or pain, the bawled-out curses which aided the efforts of swinging arms and jabbing lances, even the clash of metal on metal and the noise of many things being broken: shields, swords and human bones. Afire with battle lust Sichelgaita still heard and obeyed those horns, quick to lead her Lombards out of contact. In doing so she passed through the line of Bohemund’s lances, men sitting at ease on their destriers, eyes fixed forward on either side of their nose guards, as if the day was peaceful. As soon as the Lombards were through and reformed, Bohemund called forward the crossbowmen, who took up a position before him, each going down on one knee, then raising their weapons.
The first bolts hit the Varangians at a distance from which they could only retaliate by attacking, yet when they did so they were advancing into a maelstrom of short, deadly arrows. If they looked over their shoulder for support, which should have come from the renegade Turks and the Serbians through whom they had so recently filtered, it was not forthcoming. Wisdom dictated that in the face of an assault they could not counter, they withdraw; martial pride and the tradition of the imperial bodyguard made that anathema.
For the majority of the Imperial Guard, all England’s exiles, Robert de Hauteville’s ducal gonfalon was visible right by where he sat on his horse, unmistakable given his frame and colouring, a Norman rag to a Saxon bull, and the Varangians — regardless of their bloodline, for the act became collective — broke into a charging run to get at the Duke of Apulia and slay him in place of the bastard William of Normandy.
That was when Bohemund moved, bringing forward his conroys at a steady trot, lances lowered and couched, a new tactic he had developed in training outside Durazzo to unite the impact of both horse and man. They hit them obliquely and drove them back upon themselves. Axes notwithstanding, they went down in droves, which checked their forward momentum, which might have given them an advantage if the mounted men had still been engaged. They were not; Bohemund’s conroys had broken off contact at the sound of a horn and retired. Not that there was any respite for the remaining axemen; — now they were, once more, at the mercy of the crossbows.
What followed was a savage, silent execution, for the Varangians could not come forward without facing Norman lances and nor could they stand still and survive the arrows which were fired at such high velocity and such short range that they smashed through their hardwood shields. Slowly, inexorably, their ranks thinned, yet still they stood tall and defiant, refusing to retreat. From being a magnificent sight they were reduced to a group of ragged individuals, few of whom were lacking a wound, which brought on the point for which Robert had been waiting. With a wave of his own sword, and the blowing of the horns, he ordered a general advance on the Byzantine line to counter an assault that had been launched to drive in what the Byzantine Emperor thought were two broken flanks, only to realise, once it was in motion, they were in fact holding.
Alexius had misjudged but was not undone; he had miscalculated but that was an experience he had undergone before. That the Serbians and Turks had not moved to support and help his Imperial Guard was enough to bring on an apoplexy, but that fury had to be kept from showing for the same reason as the Guiscard acted as though the opening attack had been no surprise: a general must at all times appear calm and in control. So, discounting them, for if they had yet to move it was not likely they would ever do so, he urged forward his magnificently caparisoned white horse and rode out ahead of his advancing army, to cheers that ran all along his line. He too used his sword to speed the advance and his men moved forward at a faster pace to meet the Apulian enemy, both hosts clashing in a cacophony of human sound.
The leaders were in the thick of the action and both were brave and skilled, the Guiscard confident that he would prevail, Alexius Comnenus the more desperate, for his rule and the Empire were at risk if he should fall. Sichelgaita led her Lombards against the Pechenegs while Bohemund was embroiled with the Byzantine soldiers Alexius had led before assuming the purple. Head and shoulders above his confreres, he was visible to Alexius, who knew that he would never get through to Robert de Hauteville with his familia knights forming an arc around his person, trying and failing to keep him out of the thickest part of the fight.
The Emperor was not wholly without personal supporters, and gathering them he pointed out the very easy to spot Bohemund and set his horse towards him, unaware that Count Radulf, whom he had so charmed in Constantinople that the Apulian envoy had forgotten his purpose, was eagerly manoeuvring to meet him and remove what he saw as a stain upon his standing with his liege lord. Eyes fixed on his quarry, Radulf took Alexius unawares, giving him a blow that nearly knocked his helmet from his head, leaving a gash that soon leaked blood into the imperial eyes.
Half blinded, Alexius turned to meet the Norman and their swords met with a force that sent a shudder up their arms. Seeking to manoeuvre a horse in an area that was fully occupied with fighting men was near impossible and Radulf, having been forced to turn his back on the Emperor, got a deep gash across his left shoulder, though the blow lost force by the fact he was moving away. Time and again they met, only to be forced apart by the need to expose anything vital and that was when Geoffrey Roussel rode into view yelling like some kind of satanic phantom.
‘The Pechenegs have broken and are in flight! Autokrator, the day is lost!’
Alexius either did not hear or chose to ignore what he was being told, but in even acknowledging the arrival of Roussel his concentration was diminished enough to let Radulf through his defence. The Norman sword was thrusting to its full extent and would have ended its travel in the imperial gut if Roussel had not struck it down with such force he nearly unhorsed Radulf. The one-time envoy was now at risk and Alexius swung his own blade to take off his head at the shoulders. Roussel, hauling on his bridle, pulled his horse just enough to allow the blade to whistle past Radulf’s nose and the Emperor was hauled out of the fight, even if it was against his wish.
In truth, blood boiling, Alexius had ignored his duties. All around him his host was breaking up and brave men were dying for want of a command that would save their lives and maybe aid them to fight another day. Wiping the stream of blood from his face, Alexius ordered the trumpets to sound the retreat, telling his soldiers to break contact and seek safety, which was only achieved by his own personal example. The Byzantine Emperor, in Greek the autokrator, rode time and again into danger to personally command his men to fall back and to lead them to a place where they could disengage, the order then to begin the tramp back to the East.
Robert de Hauteville kept up only enough pressure to make them run and soon it was his turn
to sound the horns that would bring his host to a halt — all except those trying to capture George Palaeologus and stop him from getting back inside the walls of Durazzo. In the end that was only partially successful, Palaeologus being forced to retire with his brother-in-law, leaving the city without its best defender. Not that the Guiscard was disheartened; with no possibility of relief the fall of Durazzo was only a matter of time, while between him and the imperial capital there was nothing left to oppose him.
So tenacious was the defence, the siege of Durazzo went on for four more months, and while they were fighting to overcome those walls, Alexius, as well as trying to raise another army, was employing that well-worn Byzantine tactic of spreading trouble using a seemingly bottomless supply of treasury gold. Added to that the Apulian traitors got out of Durazzo and across the Adriatic without being intercepted and once there, with money and discontent to distribute, they had fomented yet another uprising, which broke out just after Durazzo fell and the Apulian army had begun to march up the Via Egnatia, with Sichelgaita insisting that Borsa needed help to contain it.
‘Let us see how good my son and heir is,’ Robert barked. ‘He will have to leave off counting my treasure and learn to employ his lance.’
Sichelgaita was not a person to be shouted at without replying in kind. ‘All you have to do is show yourself, husband, lop off a few heads, and the revolt will collapse.’
‘Are you mad, woman? I have Alexius Comnenus by the throat.’
‘What use an empire if you cannot hold your dukedoms?’
‘You wanted Borsa to be tested, this is his chance to show his mettle.’
‘You must send him the means.’
‘I will, Sichelgaita, I’ll send him my best general — you!’
In the end the Guiscard relented and sent Sichelgaita back with two hundred lances under Reynard of Eu; his jest to send Bohemund to command them was not a tease much appreciated. Having garrisoned Durazzo he set off east for Kastoria, the site of another impressive castle and one that he was told had been left in the hands of Alexius’s best remaining troops, with another sturdy and clever commander to hold it. In truth, these men surrendered the castle as soon as he demanded they do so, leading everyone in his army to assume the Empire was collapsing so rapidly it would fall into Apulian hands like a ripe apple in a high wind.
Robert de Hauteville had enjoyed good fortune throughout his life, but there had been setbacks too and, just as he thought he had the greatest of prizes in his grasp, it was snatched from him by both his duty and a greater threat. First, the revolt in Apulia was too dangerous to be left to Sichelgaita, but there was worse to follow. The call came from Pope Gregory demanding that he, as a papal vassal, come to the rescue of Rome, threatened by an imperial army led by Henry IV, bringing with him in his train the imperial antipope.
If it had just been Gregory, the Guiscard would have been tempted to leave him to his fate, but it was not. Jordan of Capua had deserted Rome and sworn allegiance to Henry, creating that combination of foes that always threatened the de Hauteville position. With nothing to fear from Capua the Eternal City might fall and Robert could not countenance Henry in possession of Rome, and nor could he have on the throne of the Supreme Pontiff a pope who would question the validity of his titles and might act to remove him.
Alexius Comnenus and Constantinople would have to wait. Handing over command to Bohemund, with an instruction to keep up the pressure without risking the host, Robert de Hauteville, with a heavy heart, headed back for Durazzo.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
If Bohemund commanded his father’s army, he did not command the resources required to sustain in the field. At first, this did not constrain him; he continued the advance and inflicted several defeats on the Emperor, as well as the Byzantine forces that Alexius managed to cobble together, taking control of Macedonia and moving on into Thessaly and near to the border with Thrace. Yet it was here he found he lacked the support that would have allowed him to press further forward; indeed some of his best lances were being drained away to help his sire, underlining the fact that the provinces of Apulia and Calabria were proving difficult to pacify, while the Saracen contingent had returned to Count Roger in Sicily.
If the ducal attention was fixed first and foremost on his domains, matters further north did not do anything to ease Robert de Hauteville’s concerns, which further impacted on his son. News filtered through from Durazzo that Henry IV was no longer prepared to be the Emperor-elect; he had entered Rome with his army, chased Pope Gregory into the Castel St Angelo and was awaiting a synod of high clerics that would agree to his being crowned with the diadem of Charlemagne. Instead of supporting Bohemund with money and men, the Duke of Apulia was busy raising a host at home with the intention of rescuing Gregory.
Both father and son also faced the effect of Byzantine gold: as much as money was generously disbursed to suborn the Apulian rebels, it had been used to finance the position of Henry IV to the tune of half a million gold pieces, both entities able to draw off the Guiscard from his intentions towards Byzantium. In contrast, the army led by Bohemund was being starved of funds and that led to discontent, which in turn dangerously lowered morale. Surveying his forces before the city of Larissa, Bohemund knew it lacked the power, in both numbers and in spirit, with which it had set out from the Adriatic coast. Yet he was still confident; opposing him once more was Alexius Comnenus and he had lost every battle since and including Durazzo, so it was therefore safe to assume his troops were never happy when facing an enemy to whom they had so regularly had to grant victory.
A good general learns from such defeats and Alexius had extracted much upon which to ponder at the two victories Bohemund had inflicted on him at Yannina and Arta; his foot soldiers could not stand against the Norman charge, so much more powerful now that they used their lances couched instead of loose — when the point made contact with a shield, it had behind it so much weight and power that no man could keep his feet, so his infantry line was being bowled aside rather than beaten back by bloody slaughter.
To counter that, Alexius lined up his foot soldiers at the base of a steep hill and now it was he who stood on the defensive, knowing that to progress at all, and given the state of his forces, Bohemund would be required to attack. At the sound of the horns the Byzantine infantry, under the command of their captains, began to step backwards onto that slope, though keeping their face to the enemy so that they would come on. This the massed conroys did but by the time they reached their enemy they had retired enough of a distance that the Normans were forced to ride uphill, which took all the momentum out of their charge. This allowed the shield wall to maintain its footing, despite repeated attempts to break it down.
Beating against such a static wall was a waste of effort, but worse was to follow. As they fell back, the Norman cavalry under Geoffrey Roussel attacked and used that same slope to increase their speed and to hit Bohemund’s men with real force. With the host that his sire had led at Durazzo, this, for Bohemund, would have been a setback but no more. Outside Larissa they were not the same; the spirit that had animated them, already low, was so further depleted by the need to give ground that it was wholly gone, dissipated with time spent in marching and fighting, the sheer misery of campaigning, which always diminished the fighting power of an army, as well as the feeling of being neglected. Where there had been rumblings of discontent, that now manifested itself in a desire not to throw themselves into danger and after a fruitless day the Apulian army was obliged to surrender the ground to the Byzantines.
Then there was money: an advancing and successful army will not complain for the lack of the pay they have been promised, for plentiful pillage mitigates the grievance and none were more given to that feeling than Normans. To a man, these knights had come to Italy as mercenaries; they did not fight for Apulia or loyalty to Duke Robert but for their own personal gain, while the conscripts that the Guiscard had raised from his domains, lacking pay and plunder, wanted to pack in
fighting and go home to their previous life. Being static brings such desires to the fore and, in judging the condition of his forces following his setback, knowing as well that to advance would be foolhardy, Bohemund knew he needed coin and lots of it to quiet their grousing, so he called together his lieutenants and ordered them to hold their positions while he returned to Brindisi for that purpose.
‘And if Alexius attacks?’ asked Count Radulf, voicing an opinion held by his fellow battaile commanders.
‘He lacks the strength, Radulf, and he too must remain on the defensive given the quality of the men he leads. If he did not, we would not have been allowed to retire from Larissa and we would not be secure in our present lines.’
Looking around the faces that filled the ground floor of the manor house he had taken over as accommodation, Bohemund found that none would hold his eye, yet if he felt their mood to be less than even he hoped, there was nought he could do to alter it. These were not men to be lifted by a rousing speech; they had seen too much fighting and he was not fool enough to appeal to anything of a personal nature — even if he had good grounds to feel he was respected as a commanding general it was not an emotion they would show.
‘I do not go just for the money to pay everyone, but for reinforcements, too.’
‘Your father has other concerns, Bohemund,’ said another of his lieutenants.
‘He will not readily give up what we have taken here in Romania.’
‘Perhaps, Bohemund, Borsa will grant you the contents of his purse.’
At one time, only a few months past, these men would have laughed at Radulf’s jest; now they looked grim and in truth it had been delivered in a sour voice.
‘On your honour, hold until I return, that is all I ask.’