‘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.
‘I want to try to sap,’ he said.
Robert looked hard at him, thinking Bohemund was not a jolly companion, he was too concentrated on fighting to enjoy a jest and he was a mass of impatience, this being his first siege.
‘The city is built on rock.’
‘There must be soft earth somewhere.’
‘Yes there is,’ Robert growled, ‘and you are likely to be buried in it.’
‘I am sick of doing nothing or building towers so that the Bariots can warm their arses.’
‘How many times have I told you not to fret, time is our friend, not our enemy.’
‘I’ll be a greybeard before I see inside that damned city.’
Robert’s heir, Roger, came bursting in, as enthusiastic as a boy of his age should be, soon followed by his doting mother. Sichelgaita exchanged a sour look with Bohemund, one that the father of both boys, even as he allowed Roger to jump on him, could not avoid observing.
‘I take it,’ Sichelgaita said, ‘the great general is still trying to tell you that you know nothing about how to fight a war?’
‘I would not dream of usurping your position,’ Bohemund spat.
‘Can I have some money, Papa,’ Roger cried, ‘for my purse?’
Sichelgaita had been glaring at Bohemund with loathing, but that changed to a maternal beam as she looked at Roger: she doted on the child and was, with a motherly mote to cloud her vision, looking forward to a day when he was a match in height and build for his disenfranchised sibling. Robert was fond of Roger, whom he had nicknamed Borsa for his love of money, not the possession of it but his habit of endlessly counting coins. However, it took no great genius to see if there was an inheritance in his blood it came from his wife’s family rather than his own: Roger Borsa looked like Sichelgaita’s brother, Gisulf — thin, with dull, fair hair and no glint in his eye of anything martial.