Having stopped once the Lombard defence broke, the Varangians were now reordering their ranks for an attack on the Apulian centre from what was a now open flank. To Robert’s left the Normans, led by Geoffrey Roussel, were beating against the Sicilian Saracens he had sent to his left wing, men who had been personally trained by his brother Count Roger and well knew how to withstand the efforts of Roussel’s conroys, who beat against their line in vain.
‘My Lord,’ shouted Count Radulf, now returned to join his liege lord, his arm outstretched towards the walls of Durazzo. ‘The gates of the city have been opened.’
‘Palaeologus will come out, Radulf, it has been anticipated.’
Robert was still watching his wife as Sichelgaita brought her Lombards in a series of compact lines back into the killing zone, which disrupted and surprised the Varangians, now obliged to wheel back to face them. Sword waving above her head once more, Sichelgaita led them into the fray, and if they suffered for their assault as much as they had previously, they were valiant in the way they pressed on, even as men and horses fell in increasing numbers. He was still watching this with admiration when Reynard rejoined him.
‘My Lord, Bohemund is in position.’
‘The horns,’ Robert commanded. ‘Blow the retreat.’
The high notes rose above the sound of fighting, the cries of men hurt or dying, of horses neighing in panic or pain, the bawled-out curses which aided the efforts of swinging arms and jabbing lances, even the clash of metal on metal and the noise of many things being broken: shields, swords and human bones. Afire with battle lust Sichelgaita still heard and obeyed those horns, quick to lead her Lombards out of contact. In doing so she passed through the line of Bohemund’s lances, men sitting at ease on their destriers, eyes fixed forward on either side of their nose guards, as if the day was peaceful. As soon as the Lombards were through and reformed, Bohemund called forward the crossbowmen, who took up a position before him, each going down on one knee, then raising their weapons.
The first bolts hit the Varangians at a distance from which they could only retaliate by attacking, yet when they did so they were advancing into a maelstrom of short, deadly arrows. If they looked over their shoulder for support, which should have come from the renegade Turks and the Serbians through whom they had so recently filtered, it was not forthcoming. Wisdom dictated that in the face of an assault they could not counter, they withdraw; martial pride and the tradition of the imperial bodyguard made that anathema.
For the majority of the Imperial Guard, all England’s exiles, Robert de Hauteville’s ducal gonfalon was visible right by where he sat on his horse, unmistakable given his frame and colouring, a Norman rag to a Saxon bull, and the Varangians — regardless of their bloodline, for the act became collective — broke into a charging run to get at the Duke of Apulia and slay him in place of the bastard William of Normandy.
That was when Bohemund moved, bringing forward his conroys at a steady trot, lances lowered and couched, a new tactic he had developed in training outside Durazzo to unite the impact of both horse and man. They hit them obliquely and drove them back upon themselves. Axes notwithstanding, they went down in droves, which checked their forward momentum, which might have given them an advantage if the mounted men had still been engaged. They were not; Bohemund’s conroys had broken off contact at the sound of a horn and retired. Not that there was any respite for the remaining axemen; — now they were, once more, at the mercy of the crossbows.
What followed was a savage, silent execution, for the Varangians could not come forward without facing Norman lances and nor could they stand still and survive the arrows which were fired at such high velocity and such short range that they smashed through their hardwood shields. Slowly, inexorably, their ranks thinned, yet still they stood tall and defiant, refusing to retreat. From being a magnificent sight they were reduced to a group of ragged individuals, few of whom were lacking a wound, which brought on the point for which Robert had been waiting. With a wave of his own sword, and the blowing of the horns, he ordered a general advance on the Byzantine line to counter an assault that had been launched to drive in what the Byzantine Emperor thought were two broken flanks, only to realise, once it was in motion, they were in fact holding.
Alexius had misjudged but was not undone; he had miscalculated but that was an experience he had undergone before. That the Serbians and Turks had not moved to support and help his Imperial Guard was enough to bring on an apoplexy, but that fury had to be kept from showing for the same reason as the Guiscard acted as though the opening attack had been no surprise: a general must at all times appear calm and in control. So, discounting them, for if they had yet to move it was not likely they would ever do so, he urged forward his magnificently caparisoned white horse and rode out ahead of his advancing army, to cheers that ran all along his line. He too used his sword to speed the advance and his men moved forward at a faster pace to meet the Apulian enemy, both hosts clashing in a cacophony of human sound.
The leaders were in the thick of the action and both were brave and skilled, the Guiscard confident that he would prevail, Alexius Comnenus the more desperate, for his rule and the Empire were at risk if he should fall. Sichelgaita led her Lombards against the Pechenegs while Bohemund was embroiled with the Byzantine soldiers Alexius had led before assuming the purple. Head and shoulders above his confreres, he was visible to Alexius, who knew that he would never get through to Robert de Hauteville with his familia knights forming an arc around his person, trying and failing to keep him out of the thickest part of the fight.
The Emperor was not wholly without personal supporters, and gathering them he pointed out the very easy to spot Bohemund and set his horse towards him, unaware that Count Radulf, whom he had so charmed in Constantinople that the Apulian envoy had forgotten his purpose, was eagerly manoeuvring to meet him and remove what he saw as a stain upon his standing with his liege lord. Eyes fixed on his quarry, Radulf took Alexius unawares, giving him a blow that nearly knocked his helmet from his head, leaving a gash that soon leaked blood into the imperial eyes.
Half blinded, Alexius turned to meet the Norman and their swords met with a force that sent a shudder up their arms. Seeking to manoeuvre a horse in an area that was fully occupied with fighting men was near impossible and Radulf, having been forced to turn his back on the Emperor, got a deep gash across his left shoulder, though the blow lost force by the fact he was moving away. Time and again they met, only to be forced apart by the need to expose anything vital and that was when Geoffrey Roussel rode into view yelling like some kind of satanic phantom.
‘The Pechenegs have broken and are in flight! Autokrator, the day is lost!’
Alexius either did not hear or chose to ignore what he was being told, but in even acknowledging the arrival of Roussel his concentration was diminished enough to let Radulf through his defence. The Norman sword was thrusting to its full extent and would have ended its travel in the imperial gut if Roussel had not struck it down with such force he nearly unhorsed Radulf. The one-time envoy was now at risk and Alexius swung his own blade to take off his head at the shoulders. Roussel, hauling on his bridle, pulled his horse just enough to allow the blade to whistle past Radulf’s nose and the Emperor was hauled out of the fight, even if it was against his wish.