‘They don’t seem much interested in Serlo,’ Ralph de Boeuf said, long fully recovered.
There was no alarm in his voice: it was merely a statement of what he and Roger could see, the Saracens were detaching no men to protect their flank against Serlo and his mounted lances. Their tactic, if it could be graced with such a name, was to be an all-out frontal assault.
‘They aim to brush us aside,’ Roger replied.
Ralph actually laughed. ‘Can they not spot a wall when they see one?’
‘God be with you, Ralph,’ Roger said, at the point where he could see the determination in the eyes of the Saracen front rank.
‘He is with us all,’ Ralph replied, ‘but note it, the men who lead this host are not with them.’
‘They lead from the rear.’
‘A collection of farts, then?’ Ralph joked.
Roger still had the opportunity to stand before his lances and give a rousing speech, but this was not a time in which rhetoric would be appropriate. Every man he led knew that they had one simple task, to stand firm in their line or to die.
‘Shields and lances,’ he said, without much raising his voice.
That was answered down his line: seventy Normans strong on either side of their leader, like a ripple, as shields came up and lances were lowered to form a solid wall of steel, and each man checked his other weapons — axes and knives — were to hand.
Following on from a shout of ‘Allah Akbar’, the men before them rushed forward to do battle, their voices rising into a terrifying roar. A wise general puts his best fighting men in his front line and even the divided command of the Saracens had taken that elementary course, so the fiercest combat of the day was at the very outset of the battle. Roger’s line was hard pressed, swaying back and forth like rippling waters as they were pressed back in some sections.
Yet the line never fractured: if a man fell it contracted a fraction, and those under pressure knew they had to regain the few footsteps of ground surrendered to hold the cohesion of the whole, fighting with extra ferocity to do so. The leading elements of the Saracens had died on Norman lances and they were either now wrenched out of mailed hands by falling bodies or useless without their metal tips. The positions were thus reversed: it was now the Normans fighting off lance points with swords and axes, yet those seeking to kill them had great difficulty in controlling what they did, so great was the press behind them.
Roger had chosen his field of battle well; he knew the enemy he was going to face would vastly outnumber him, just as he suspected with such superiority they could not resist the temptation to attack — even if it was mooted in a divided command, the wise head who gainsaid such a course would risk ridicule. For all their numbers the Saracens could only deploy so many in the constricted killing zone he had imposed on them and he being on an upslope meant the elements to the rear had no idea what was going on in front of them, while those at the front arrived before him short on breath.
Buoyed up by the prospect of a kill and glory, they pressured the leading fighters onto the Norman line, denying them the ability to manoeuvre in their individual combats, for that was what it became: one Norman fighting at best two Saracens, never any more, levies doing battle with men who trained every day in individual combat. After the first rush those coming on had another obstacle, the bodies of those either already slain or writhing with wounds too serious to allow them to crawl away. They died, too, crushed as their fellows clambered over them to get at the defence, the new assailants slithering and slipping either on their uneven flesh or the huge quantities of blood that flowed into the muddy trampled ground.
Wisdom would have had the Saracens call off the attack and regroup; that was not present and the fools in command let their suffering cohorts continue to press. Now the quality of the men the Normans faced was falling as each successive wave suffered wounds and death, while having to clamber over an increasing wall of bodies just to get at their enemies. Roger could see, like every one of his confreres, the fear in the eyes of the men he was now fighting. What was driving them on now was not zeal but the weight of their fellows on their backs.
A man afraid to die in battle is at greater risk than one who fears it not, the pile of dead a rampart over which it was becoming harder and harder to climb. Roger ordered his men to undertake that, so from a position of height, once they had steadied their footholds, they could inflict terrible punishment on Saracens now cowering in fear from the sweeping blows, yet they could not escape their fate. They were not cheering now but wailing, some stupidly falling to their knees in the hope of being spared, losing their hands as well as the heads they put them to in supplication.
How they managed to keep fighting and killing would cause Roger’s men to wonder long after Cerami, but the answer was simple. First it was a discipline drummed into them from childhood, next the fear of letting down the men alongside, members of your own conroy, added to that arms that had a strength and endurance lacking in their opponents. Finally it was the certain knowledge that to relax in battle, even for a blink of an eye, was to risk immediate ruin not only for yourself, but also for the whole number of your confreres.
So they fought on with throats so dry that to swallow was painful, with eyes full of stinging sweat and faces covered with spouted blood and sliced gore, slithering on the ground that was now a morass from bright-red irrigation, wondering how, at every swing of the arm, the strength was still there to lift their weapons, yet it was.
The Saracens were now still, not advancing, debarred from falling back by those following on, crowded, unsighted and less enthusiastic. Now rippling along the lines were cries of betrayal, not bravery or paeans to the Prophet. That was the point at which Serlo attacked; he had been waiting, watching anxiously, fearful that his uncle’s line would fracture, intent on sacrificing his own lances to secure enough of a breathing space for them either to reform or retreat, lost in wonder at the way the line held. Jordan had been all for moving sooner: it was his father who stood to forfeit his life and the youngster had needed to be near-physically restrained.
Given his head now, Roger’s bastard son outdid his hero in the ardour of his attack. For once, Serlo sought not to hold a firm line, the accustomed Norman way. With the insight given to few who command men he knew that shock was the most important contribution he could deliver on a flank of confused Saracens, who still thought the men they were pushing forward were winning, not dying. Added to that, the enemy command had so filled the field with foot soldiers that what cavalry they had could not contest with him: they were blocked off.
On the hill opposite Roger de Hauteville, the trio who led the Saracens could see what was happening, could see their aim of brushing these pests aside had not only failed but was beginning to crumble, which presaged disaster. Later Roger heard reports of their disputes, two brothers accusing each other of stupidity, then both turning on Ibn-al-Hawas to charge him with leading them into a trap. Only one of them needed to show leadership, to force his way to the front to where their soldiers were being slaughtered and effect a retreat in which they could regroup: the battle was not lost — they still massively outnumbered the Normans.
Possible it might have been, but they disputed too long. The ripple of despair began to spread through the mass of the Saracen army, now not much more than a swirling, leaderless mob, for anyone of authority had died quickly. The terror of those still expiring on Norman swords swept back to the rear elements and they began to panic. Allah might promise them all sorts of pleasures in heaven, but life was suddenly sweeter; they began to fall back to the river, and as the pressure eased at the front they disengaged and began to run.