‘Brace yourselves,’ he shouted, grabbing a transfixed Bisanzio and forcing him to take hold of a cleat, this as he moved to one side, the men he had ordered to follow doing so just in time to grab at a steadying rope.
The crunch was deafening, the prow of the Byzantine ship rising up like a rearing horse as it ploughed into the planks, brought to halt, timber shattering and splinters flying. By the time it settled Paternos was already on the stern of the vessel he wanted to take, aware and pleased that the second of his ships, without specific orders, had sheared contact with the next ship in line. The Norman tactic did not place many men on each vessel, the idea being that once the point of assault was established they could concentrate; Paternos, by his tactics, had nullified their numerical advantage where it mattered.
Those standing next to Robert de Hauteville heard him swear and it took the loudest shout he could muster to stop Bohemund rushing into what he knew would be a losing battle. He knew, too, there was no need to seal the limits of the Byzantine attack: they did not want to destroy his defence, merely to get through. It was as hard to watch his men go down as much as to see his line ripped open, but, good as they were, they were outnumbered by proper soldiers and in a situation where no quarter was a necessity. Already his mind was moving on.
‘Get the blacksmiths at their forges now, from here to Melfi. I want chains made, stout enough to stop this happening again.’
That, too, had to be said loudly, to carry over the cheering from the ramparts of Bari.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
For the people of Palermo the effect of having a Norman army close by was worse than being under siege: they knew Roger de Hauteville was coming, they just did not know when and, as the months stretched to years, it induced in them a feeling of increasing hopelessness. Appeals to the remaining emirs on the island fell on deaf ears: none of them were of the stature of Ibn-al-Hawas, and besides, they would not agree to elect either a leader nor, after such a string of massive defeats, to any notion of taking the field. Likewise their brethren in North Africa: they were too chastened to have any ambitions in that quarter.
Not that Sicily was at peace: the Normans raided far and wide, plundering what they could carry and destroying what they could not, taking the smaller walled towns, any fortress too formidable could watch their fields burn from their ramparts. Roger’s lances grew fat from the proceeds and naturally his coffers filled with gold as the spoils of war — animals, produce and slaves — were traded for profit, all transactions done through his agent Kasa Ephraim, now reaping a fabulous reward for his earlier support.
That there were frustrations went without saying: for all Roger was acquiring in treasure from the Sicilian hinterland, it would pale in comparison to what would be gained from the richest city on the island as well as one of the wealthiest ports in the Mediterranean. There had been temptation: Pisa had offered him a fleet and an alliance, their part of the plan to blockade the port. Roger turned them down: this was to be a Norman conquest, not a shared one, and besides, a fleet was not enough — for any siege to be decisive he needed Robert’s army.
He knew matters were moving his way when the summons came, the same having been sent to Mauger at Scalea. The Guiscard wanted every lance Roger could spare. The siege of Bari was moving to a climax.
‘You see, Robert,’ Roger pricked him, ‘it is not so bad having Mauger serving with you as well.’
‘True, brother, it gives me someone to loathe more than the family quarrels I’m exposed to. With you arrived I am doubly protected, given no one disputes with me more than you. What a family I am cursed with!’
Roger merely smiled; he had always wanted to ask his older brother questions he knew Robert would not answer, so he had therefore left them unspoken. Here he was moaning about family quarrels — in truth it was the continued griping between Sichelgaita and Bohemund — yet he had a feeling for his relations that he tried and failed to hide. He might have been begged to forgive Mauger but that weighed for nothing. Yet here he was, close to the pinnacle of everything his predecessors had sought to achieve, and he wanted those of his family who remained to be close by when success came.
Roger had come with Jordan and Serlo; Geoffrey of Loritello, looking as if death were stalking him, was present, as was Humphrey’s son, Abelard, looking aggrieved, as he always did with an uncle he considered treacherous. He had called on the two rebellious sons of Beatrix to be with him, and his own child Borsa was present. Robert also sent for his daughter Emma and, most tellingly, for Mauger, whom he claimed to like the least. The Lord of Scalea had only a few lances to add to his forces, so it was sentiment, not a request for military support that had prompted the act.
‘Did you want me for my lances or just to gloat?’ Roger asked.
‘Both,’ Robert replied, honest for once. ‘But I thank you most for the Calabrian ships you brought, for it is at sea this siege will be decided.’
If others saw Robert sitting idly outside Bari they had failed to discern his other moves, not least in his gathering of a powerful fleet. He had his floating barrier, but he also had vessels at sea and in strength — a part of his forces he wanted Roger to command.
‘So, how do we fare overall?’ was Roger’s question.
There was no need for Robert to list his failures, yet he did so: assaults on the land wall that had got nowhere, the endless destruction of his siege towers, the fractious nature of many of his captains, not least his own natural son, while to his rear Apulia was groaning under the cost of maintaining such a lengthy effort. Then there was what had happened to his boats.
‘You heard of Paternos and what he did?’ Roger nodded. ‘Well, my spies tell me that when it became known he sacrificed the grain convoy to get his troops into Bari there was much unrest.’
‘Your spies?’
‘I have quite a few. The one I rely on most is a fellow called Argirizzo.’
‘Greek?’
‘No,’ Robert scoffed, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s an Egyptian.’
Roger held up a hand to admit it was a foolish question.
‘Of course he’s Greek, and a devious bastard at that. God only knows what I will do with him if I succeed and he survives, because I could never trust him.’
Roger was about to respond by saying he did not trust anyone but he held his tongue.
‘I have been sending him funds to buy grain from those hoarding it and using that he spreads dissent, not hard with people being so hungry. It was he who stirred up the Bariots against the loss of that grain. Paternos is seen as a devil and one living well while others starve.’
‘Then why did they assassinate Bisanzio and not him?’
An unknown assailant had cut down the Catapan in the street: even Paternos was suspected, though Robert was a better candidate.
‘Bisanzio was easier to get to.’
‘Did you order that?’ Roger asked.
Seeing the look he was getting, Robert added querulously, ‘It is settlement for William and Drogo.’
‘Be careful they don’t do the same to you,’ Roger insisted. ‘If you instigate the murder of a leader, it will tempt someone to revenge.’
‘They never believed I would press the siege so long,’ Robert insisted, changing an uncomfortable subject and since it was approaching three years, that was an understatement. Robert’s brow clouded, making him look devilish. ‘But I am here till Bari falls, Roger. I will never give this up.’
‘It could be another year.’
‘Then let it be that,’ Robert growled, before he brightened a little. ‘But, you know God is on our side, brother. He will make something happen.’