He came down to the quay himself to watch the loading and to add his towering voice to the confusion, which was not always an aid. Horses had a terror of anything with which they were not familiar and that included moving ramps, and however generous, ships that were not steady either, even in harbour — broad-bottomed sailing vessels onto which they had to be loaded in their thousands, enough mounts for fifteen hundred Norman lances as well as the lighter Lombard and Saracen cavalry.
The destriers, bred for and trained in battle tactics, were the easiest to load, for they had been, through long training, brought to a pitch of fearlessness necessary to carry their rider straight at a shield wall of yelling adversaries waving swords and spears. The cavalry mounts were more skittish, and a stiff wind blowing sails and ropes about, as well as any loose bits of canvas, made it hard to get them to voluntarily walk up the gangways to the deck, which was as nothing to getting them down another narrow ramp into the dark hold and into the constricted stalls set up to keep them safe on the swell, each with strapping to run under their bellies in case their legs gave way.
In this they would kick and bite, as well as splay their legs to become immovable even with ropes round their flanks, which is when an equine found out just how much a Norman loved his horse, for many got a hard buffet on the snout from a less than contented knight. The packhorses, many of them mares, were the worst, neighing and rearing in panic, a goodly number only happy when hooded and rendered blind, others requiring a mix of herbs that Count Roger had learnt how to mix from Calabrian monks, a potion which sedated them enough to allow them to be led aboard. Then came the donkeys and those who looked after them, that great trail of bodies of various trades and none that would bring up the rear of the host when it marched.
The same scene was being played out in the port of Otranto, lower down the Apulian coast. When the ships bearing both the knights and their mounts had departed for the outer roads it was time to load the supply vessels with everything the army needed, from bales of hay down to cooking pots, farrier’s nails and shoes, hoof oil, curry combs, spare weapons, mail, bolts of canvas to make tents and salted fish and meat. That was a supply that might need to be maintained as long as the host was in Illyria; the Normans lived off the land where they could, but that was not always possible, especially when the force was numbered in the thousands.
The return of Count Radulf from Constantinople brought Robert back from overseeing the loading to his castle, but it did not bring to his master any joy or the information he sought — quite the opposite; what he was told sent him into a towering rage. In the first place the usurping Emperor Botaneiates, who was so unpopular Robert saw him as easy meat in any coming battle, had himself been overthrown, replaced by a claimant to the purple called Alexius Comnenus.
He was, according to Radulf, the nephew of a previous emperor and so had the right to the diadem. He was also a talented general, popular with the Byzantine mob and a soldier who could command respect in the imperial provinces. None of this came as music to Robert’s ears, but what pricked Robert’s anger most was the calm way his envoy informed him that Alexius was strong for peace. He was prepared to return the Duke’s daughter or even allow a marriage to Constantine, to whom he had acted as guardian, his envoy adding that that young man’s father, the deposed Michael Dukas, was still alive, happy making his way as an Orthodox priest, and that Radulf had even spoken with him.
Pope Gregory had sent Robert a fellow who claimed to be that self-same deposed emperor, a wretched-looking creature in a monk’s garb who certainly did not convince many, and certainly not a sly judge of character like the Guiscard; his son and heir, Borsa, had openly scoffed at the notion that this might be the true Michael Dukas, and he was far from alone — not surprisingly, for Dukas had been, prior to taking the purple, a successful general and man of some standing, an able courtier to boot, who had all the attributes to go with his position. Gregory’s false Michael was not quite an oaf, but he leant closer to that estate than towards the kind of grandeur of a man who had ruled Byzantium.
To Robert anyone would do, even if he was utterly unconvincing; in the tangled skein of imperial politics there would be those who still professed allegiance to Michael Dukas, and if he could claim that he was acting with and on the deposed emperor’s behalf, how many men could be detached from their present loyalty and thus reduce the number of his foes? Gregory’s man was a weapon, not a very good one but an asset nevertheless. The last thing the Duke of Apulia wanted publicly spoken about was that he was definitely an impostor, which was what Count Radulf was keen to prove.
‘The coup had not taken place when I departed,’ Radulf continued, his voice full of confidence. ‘I heard it as I crossed Romania, but I suspected it was coming and spent time with Alexius Comnenus as though he had already assumed the throne. He speaks of harmony between Apulia and the Empire and would welcome the opportunity to talk with you in person and in friendship.’ In making his report, Count Radulf had failed to see the effect his words were having on his master: the Guiscard’s already florid face had gone bright red, not least because it seemed his envoy had utterly failed in what was his true mission.
‘Did you speak with those Normans who have taken service with Byzantium?’
Radulf responded with an airy wave. ‘I did, but not to press them to come to join you, My Lord, since it seems we are to be at peace with the new dispensation.’
‘So you have not brought back with you a single lance?’
Radulf finally began to realise his account of his embassy was not being well received. His voice lost its air of self-assurance and he began to stammer. ‘A-as I s-said …’
He got no further, and if his master stared low in his rebuke, the voice rose inexorably to a pitch of saliva-spitting rage. ‘You are a dolt, Count Radulf …’
‘I-’
‘Silence! A fool who has not for a second even begun to obey the instructions with which I despatched you to Constantinople. I sent you on the pretext of my daughter, not on an errand to see she was being well cared for. I sent you to get some sense of the forces Botaneiates could put in the field and to attract to my banner those Norman lances that, due to your stupidity, I might now face in the field, and then you come back singing the praises of another damned usurper, talking of him as though he is a companion of your bosom.’
The walls being stone, Robert’s voice reverberated, but now he dropped it to an even more terrifying whisper.
‘Know this, fooclass="underline" when we meet this Alexius, which we will surely do if the seat of his arse on that purple imperial cushion is sound, it will be you who occupies the first line of attack, you who will lead in the first conroys and you who will be forbidden to withdraw even if I command the men you lead to do so. You will not be kissing this new usurper’s cheeks, arse or face, but the point of his lance. Now get out of my sight!’
It was by torchlight and after two whole days that the last of the vessels was ready to sail and only then would Robert admit to the depth of his weariness. If he was tired, he was content, aware that in the coming days he would cross the sea to take command and begin a conquest that might well end in the Hippodrome of Constantinople with his being acclaimed as Emperor. Normally, when seen off on campaign by his wife, Sichelgaita was full of good wishes; not this time, for she had asked that he take their son as well and he had refused.
The last ship to leave the near-empty harbour of Brindisi was his own galley, with Robert very visible on the deck, his barrel chest covered with his colours, his red-gold hair flowing in the breeze. Cheered by his fighters as he made his way out to the open Adriatic, anchors were plucked as he passed by, sails set and oars dipped, each vessel falling in behind their leader in a pattern that had been worked out by Geoffrey Ridel. The war-fighting vessels were on the outer rim to protect the mass of supply ships lumbering along in the middle, each one with men hanging over the side voiding their guts.