‘You always think my coffers are full, Borsa.’
‘Are they not, Papa?’
‘Maybe, I do not know, for I have to go to them often to pay my spies.’
‘Then you must let me tally them for you.’
‘And, my little Lombard, pocket a few,’ Bohemund sneered.
‘If he does,’ Sichelgaita hissed, ‘it is only because he has a right to it! And if you mock, it is because you have not.’
‘Enough, wife,’ Robert sighed.
The Duke of Apulia could silence most people, but not his wife.
‘Enough!’ she cried. ‘You let this popinjay insult your heir and say and do nothing.’
‘It was naught but a jest.’
‘It was a slur.’
‘That it most certainly was,’ Bohemund added gaily: Sichelgaita upset was one of the few things that made him happy. Roger Borsa had turned to look at him and if, in the boy’s eyes, was a kind of pleading affection, it was not returned. His half-brother was looking at him as a fox looks at a caged chicken, a stare that was broken by one of Robert’s servants entering the main tent.
‘Sire, a messenger from Geoffrey Ridel.’
Robert nodded, put his son on the floor, glared at both his wife and Bohemund and turned to face the man who had come in to tell him that a fleet of ships had been sighted heading for Bari, and Geoffrey Ridel suspected, by their lack of flags, they were from Constantinople.
‘Thank the good Jesus Christ,’ Robert boomed, which got him a hard look from Sichelgaita, who did not like the Lord’s name taken in vain when her son was in earshot. He hauled himself upright. ‘I have an enemy to fight that I can deal with.’
Bohemund, ever keen for a scrap, had gone before the messenger had finished his delivery, as if to be on the shore was to see this approaching hazard, which must be many leagues away in the open sea; Ridel, in command, had sent in a small, swift boat to carry the news.
‘You must curb that swine,’ Sichelgaita growled. ‘He is too free with his tongue.’
Robert looked at her wearily: if Bohemund was too free with that, he was not alone. ‘Right now I am concerned that Bisanzio is returning to Bari and if he is doing so in a fleet that means he has brought reinforcements. That I must deal with — and now.’
‘And Bohemund?’
‘Is my flesh and blood, just like little Borsa.’
‘Whom he hates. I have asked you before and I ask you again, send Bohemund away.’
‘Where?’
‘To Sicily, to Normandy or to England. Let him make his way in another land, not here.’
‘He will not harm our child, Sichelgaita,’ he said in a tired fashion, given it was something he was called upon to repeat often. ‘And before you ask how I know, I will see to it.’
‘And if you do not, will his Uncle Roger?’
‘He has told me he will. More than that I cannot do. Now please help me fight my enemies, not my family.’
Bisanzio was the first to admit he was no soldier — which had hampered his efforts to contain the Guiscard. Always having to rely on others for military advice he was never sure if the steps being taken were correct. His plea to the Empress Eudoxia for more troops — her husband was away fighting the Turks — was only part of his submission: the defenders of Bari needed a soldier, a man they could respect to take charge of thwarting the siege.
Stephen Paternos was that man, highly regarded and a proven success, so when he suggested splitting the relief force in two, separating the grain convoy from the ships carrying the fighting men, Bisanzio was happy to agree. Thus, as he approached his city and the Norman barrier, on a strong following wind, he was unaware that the grain ships had been intercepted; all he knew was what he could see, an endless stream of fighting men crossing those plank gangways from ship to ship, forming up in its defence. On the Byzantine decks, the warriors were crowding up from below, likewise preparing for battle.
‘Steer straight for them,’ Paternos ordered, ‘All sail set.’
‘They are stout bottoms, Excellency,’ the captain of the lead vessel replied — his ship was hired and thus he was more careful of its preservation than if it had been an imperial war vessel.
‘Not the ships, fool,’ Paternos barked, ‘the planks joining one to the other.’
‘The other vessels?’ Bisanzio asked, though softly: he did not want to be seen to question the military tactics and so undermine Paternos.
‘Will follow in our wake, that is if the dolts in command of them have a brain.’
The Catapan had met many military men in his time and it seemed they all talked in that fashion, an abrupt delivery that took no regard of the pride of the person being addressed, not something he, being in essence a politician, could do. He had to persuade and cajole, and often he found himself employing such wiles with people he knew were considering betraying the empire. Would there be more now than when he had left for Constantinople? Would the sight of reinforcements, always assuming they could break through, still those seditious voices?
The Guiscard knew the weakest part of his defence line was where the ships were joined, so he had placed them so close that for a vessel to ram its way through would so damage it as to perhaps have it sink in the attempt. Having done that, it would have been wise to also acknowledge that another eye examining the problem might come up with a viable solution.
The captain of the vessel was clearly in a state of some distress: he could see the gap he was being asked to sail into at full speed and he knew he would not get through without massive damage. More by hand signal than spoken order he was having the sails eased so they were not drawing as tight as they might, thus reducing the way on the ship and the potential destruction. That Stephen Paternos spotted this surprised him, but not as much as what he did next.
‘Tell me, Captain, who would you ask to command the ship if you were suddenly indisposed?’ Seeing the man wondering at the question, he added, ‘We are about to go into a fight, Captain, and I am no sailor. I need to know for the safety of us all.’
‘My mate, the fellow on the tiller.’
‘Call him to us.’
That the captain did, and as soon as his mate joined them, Paternos whipped out his sword and swung it high and hard, to cleave the captain’s head from his body, speaking before the skull had stopped rolling into the scantlings and the decapitated cadaver had fallen over, spouting foaming blood through the open trunk.
‘Set the sails properly,’ he barked at the terrified mate. ‘Do as I command, or you will suffer the same fate.’
His next order, given in a raised voice as the ship picked up speed, was for a division of his forces to be undertaken just before they struck. His men were evenly distributed on each side of the companionway that led below; this he wished to change.
‘This vessel may founder, so we need another, and the Norman barbarians have kindly provided them. Just before we make contact I want half of one division to join me on whichever side of the ship I am on, the rest to remain to defend the other side. Our task is to take one of the Normans’ vessels so quickly we will stop help coming aboard, then detach it from its fellows and create a gap for the rest of our vessels to follow. Now, everyone out of the prow.’
His enemies could not doubt as to what he intended, and they likewise began to ship men from positions in which they would be exposed, denuding the prow of one ship and the stern of another. Paternos, looking at the other vessels in his flotilla, could be content: his junior commanders, good soldiers and long servants of the empire, were implementing the plan he had discussed the last time they were on land. The grain ships might have evaded the Normans’ fleet at sea but, if not, they had drawn them away from where they were really needed: soldiers were more important in this siege than loaves of bread.