It was, of course, the Guiscard’s decision: he was the man in command, ready to personally lead his men towards the gates under a hail of crossbow bolts, and it was obvious that his impatience was having an effect on his thinking, or was it his reputation? He was a great leader of men and one whose personal example was inspirationaclass="underline" even Normans fought better under his banner than that of others, though Roger was close to matching that, but sometimes it seemed Robert was too proud of that standing.
‘No one will think the worse of you for a little delay, and if we can effect a breech then Reggio is lost.’
‘Half a glass of sand, brother, no more.’
Roger was gone before Robert finished speaking, hurrying through the lines of warriors to those working the four ballista, one set of men toiling, stripped to the waist and sweating, to load the great stones into the baskets hauled down by a windlass to contain them. They were not wheeled, and of necessity the bases were heavy, so levering three of them so they were all aimed at the same spot was the hardest work of all, this while Roger sought to persuade his master stonemasons to have a care in their choice of projectiles so they were a similar shape and weight.
The first balls were hitting the walls by the time he returned to stand by his brother, who responded to their effect with no more than a nod: they were doing damage, striking close to and very occasionally right on the spot where the first crack had appeared. It was clear that above the point no defenders remained — they too were aware of the possibility of an imminent collapse. Not that such a thing promised easy access: if the wall did crumble it would be into a heap of masonry difficult to traverse.
Part of Robert’s misgivings was that delay tended to sap the will of attackers more than defenders, and good as they were the Normans were not immune to such a loss of morale. Any good commander had an ear for what was being said in the ranks of the men behind him, even if it was indistinct. He would know that there was thirst: no man ever did battle with a wetted throat, and then there would be the warriors who thought their skills equal to his own, no doubt grousing that he had lost the use of the rising sun to blind his enemies.
The men atop the towers, his best fighters in one-to-one combat, would be wondering when the great machine on which they were perched would move to take them to the deadliest form of combat — the need to get down the dropped front ramp, exposing them to immediate and close crossbow fire if their own archers, atop them, could not suppress it. They had to fight their way onto heavily defended walls where they would be outnumbered until some of their fellows, in full mail and impeded by sword and shield, could make their way up the internal ladders to their aid, this while the defenders did everything in their power to set the towers alight.
The portion of wall went with a rumbling that spread across the glacis before them, half of it tumbling into the deep protective ditch, the rest into an untidy heap sending a great cloud of dust billowing over the landscape. Robert’s sword was up before the sound had died away and those on the ropes began to haul forward the siege towers. To their fore, parties of milities advanced, planks held above their heads, accompanied by nimble boys too young to fight, clearing away any stones that might halt the progress of the rough-hewn wheels, others with water butts to douse the fireballs flying in their direction. To their rear came a solid mass of Norman warriors, shields held high to keep away crossbow bolts, swords ready to slice human flesh as soon as it presented itself.
Clay fire pots flew over the heads of the men pushing forward the battering ram, many falling short of the gates, others flying too high, only a few doing what they were supposed to and spreading flames up and down the thick oak. The aim was not to set the gates alight — the wood was too solid and too seasoned to do anything other than smoulder — but dense smoke from that made it difficult for anyone right above the gates to breathe and seriously hampered their ability to interfere with the efforts of those beneath them. The ram was already moving at speed, the band tasked to protect their heads running alongside, bearing the thick thatched and wetted canopy designed to nullify such defensive ploys as boiling oil and pitch.
The yelling from the walls, designed to induce courage in the defence as much as fear in the assault, rose to a mighty pitch, met by silence from those coming to do battle: well versed in war, these men were not about to waste their puff — or render even drier their throats — by shouting: that they would reserve until engaged. So there was no sound from the attackers until the ram crashed into the join of the gates which, no doubt buttressed at the rear with timber baulks, did not move a fraction. The chances of breaking them down were slim: the value of the effort lay in the way it committed the fellow commanding the defence to keep men occupied in seeking to prevent it, while behind the gate he must have force enough to repel success, for if the gate did go and the assault was not repulsed, the city would be lost.
The men bearing the roughly hewn planks dropped into the ditch and sought to get them set to bear the weight, which would allow the siege towers to be rammed hard against the walls. Robert had redirected his own assault to that breech in the walls, leaving Roger to lead the tower support parties. The first tower reached the bridged ditch, but those now pushing it instead of pulling had not followed correctly the directions of the man guiding them and one of the wheels at the very fore missed the edge of the laid boards.
It began to tip to one side, slowly and majestically, though not silently, for many a scream came from those up top, most fearsome those crossbowmen at the very apex, there to suppress the defence. The men below would see nothing but would know they were in great danger as the floor below their feet began to tilt. Mentally Roger was with them, knowing each would be dropping their weapons to seek some kind of handhold they could use to break the inevitable contact with the ground. But he could not dwell on their fate — the second tower was successful, crashing into the walls and the ramp, fitted with deadly spikes, dropped on the heads of those defenders too stupid to get clear.
It was time to run hard: the defence was split, not into three as had been hoped, but divided between protecting that breech and fighting off the assault from the siege tower. Roger was perspiring and sucking in air: climbing a ladder fully armed was no easy matter but speed was of the essence: only twenty knights had been accommodated on the tower — too much weight made it immovable — and they would now be fighting to get onto the parapet, massively outnumbered by defenders who had been gifted ample time to identify the spot where they would arrive, a place to which even a half-brained commander would send some of his best fighters.
The rest would be in that breech, ready to sell their blood at a high price to keep Reggio from sack. Robert led his men onto the rubble, slithering and sliding as he sought to climb to where he could partake of the fighting he so loved. Now he was yelling, waving his sword, that great bellow egging on those with him, their responding cries soon drowned out by the sound of clashing metal as sword and shields were employed in close battle. Robert had a man close on either side of him, his shield used to protect the right-hand side of his left neighbour, he benefiting from the same for the man on his right as he swung the great weapon, destroying both shields and flesh before him.
Roger emerged onto the top of the tower to find the knights he had come to help being driven backwards, so numerous were the enemies they faced. Instinctively he knew they would be tiring: wielding a heavy weapon without a moment of respite wearied even the most puissant warrior. Hearing his shout that they should disengage, they broke off contact quickly, surprising their opponents, and slipped through the line of knights who had come up to stand behind them — they immediately moving forward to take their comrades’ place in battle, fresh arms against those also tiring from combat. The result was immediate, the defenders falling back under the relentless pressure and, within moments, Roger and his knights were over the wall and on the parapet, splitting up to carry the battle forward in both directions, seeking by hard blows to knock those they faced off this platform, to fall with bone-breaking screams onto the cobbled streets below.