Beating against such a static wall was a waste of effort, but worse was to follow. As they fell back, the Norman cavalry under Geoffrey Roussel attacked and used that same slope to increase their speed and to hit Bohemund’s men with real force. With the host that his sire had led at Durazzo, this, for Bohemund, would have been a setback but no more. Outside Larissa they were not the same; the spirit that had animated them, already low, was so further depleted by the need to give ground that it was wholly gone, dissipated with time spent in marching and fighting, the sheer misery of campaigning, which always diminished the fighting power of an army, as well as the feeling of being neglected. Where there had been rumblings of discontent, that now manifested itself in a desire not to throw themselves into danger and after a fruitless day the Apulian army was obliged to surrender the ground to the Byzantines.
Then there was money: an advancing and successful army will not complain for the lack of the pay they have been promised, for plentiful pillage mitigates the grievance and none were more given to that feeling than Normans. To a man, these knights had come to Italy as mercenaries; they did not fight for Apulia or loyalty to Duke Robert but for their own personal gain, while the conscripts that the Guiscard had raised from his domains, lacking pay and plunder, wanted to pack in fighting and go home to their previous life. Being static brings such desires to the fore and, in judging the condition of his forces following his setback, knowing as well that to advance would be foolhardy, Bohemund knew he needed coin and lots of it to quiet their grousing, so he called together his lieutenants and ordered them to hold their positions while he returned to Brindisi for that purpose.
‘And if Alexius attacks?’ asked Count Radulf, voicing an opinion held by his fellow battaile commanders.
‘He lacks the strength, Radulf, and he too must remain on the defensive given the quality of the men he leads. If he did not, we would not have been allowed to retire from Larissa and we would not be secure in our present lines.’
Looking around the faces that filled the ground floor of the manor house he had taken over as accommodation, Bohemund found that none would hold his eye, yet if he felt their mood to be less than even he hoped, there was nought he could do to alter it. These were not men to be lifted by a rousing speech; they had seen too much fighting and he was not fool enough to appeal to anything of a personal nature — even if he had good grounds to feel he was respected as a commanding general it was not an emotion they would show.
‘I do not go just for the money to pay everyone, but for reinforcements, too.’
‘Your father has other concerns, Bohemund,’ said another of his lieutenants.
‘He will not readily give up what we have taken here in Romania.’
‘Perhaps, Bohemund, Borsa will grant you the contents of his purse.’
At one time, only a few months past, these men would have laughed at Radulf’s jest; now they looked grim and in truth it had been delivered in a sour voice.
‘On your honour, hold until I return, that is all I ask.’
No sooner had Bohemund left than Geoffrey Roussel appeared under a truce flag; Alexius had spies in the Apulian camp that told him of the departure of his opponent. Roussel, being Norman himself, knew that the men the de Hautevilles commanded had only one object and he came with the means to satisfy it, or at least the promise. Before their general embarked for Apulia his lieutenants had agreed the terms by which they would accept Byzantine bribes, had collected their sacks of gold coins and were occupied leading the men they commanded back out of Thessaly. Alexius followed them, and now thoroughly demoralised it took no great effort on the autokrator’s part to recapture Macedonia and push the remnants of the Apulian army back to the Adriatic shore.
Gold was not the only article Alexius had with which to raise the stakes against his enemies. To get those Venetian dromons to sail to Durazzo and take on the Guiscard’s fleet had cost the Empire dear — a waiving of their tax burden; now he needed to offer them more, and being a wise fellow he knew which key to turn. The Doge was offered trading concessions and even a section of the imperial capital through which they could import and export goods without duties. That, worth a fortune to tempt Croesus himself, was enough to send the Venetian fleet south again, carrying a well-armed complement of soldiers, to retake Corfu and besiege and recapture Durazzo, this while the Duke of Apulia was marching north towards the Leonine City with the largest host seen on Italian soil since the time of the legions of Ancient Rome.
Bohemund did not accompany him, depressed by the fact that everything they had gained in Romania had now been lost, furious that some of the men he had trusted to stay near Larissa were now back in Italy, part of his father’s army marching to meet the new installed Emperor Henry, having been forgiven for accepting the Byzantine bribes. He retired to his sister’s castle of Lecce, where Ademar, the good Marquis of Monteroni, had made his home and which was close to his own fief of Taranto, that subject to a flying visit. This was a part of the world in which he could curse his father and fate with impunity, for even a son who loves and respects his sire can often be baffled by his actions, or to be more honest, the lack of them.
There was confusion about the Guiscard’s intentions and no conversation with him brought enlightenment; if you speculated that he had put aside all thoughts of conquest in Romania for a war against Henry and the title of King of Germany, all you would receive in return was a sly look or maybe a winking eye. Suggest that the campaign against Byzantium be resuscitated and pressed home with even greater force and Robert would nod sagely without ever stating a preference; he had got to his present eminence by being guarded about his intentions and not even for Sichelgaita would he break that habit.
‘How can you trust him?’ his sister asked, as ever suffused with fury when any discussion came up regarding their parent. ‘You are his firstborn son and even though, from what I have been told, you are his helpmeet in battle, he will not declare for you to inherit his titles.’
‘He has not declared for anyone.’
‘He does not need to, his fat sow of a wife will ensure that Borsa succeeds unless our father indicates that his preference is for you.’
The slight shuffling sound made Bohemund turn to look at the door to the chamber; in fact he was thankful to end a conversation too often aired by Emma. There stood Tancred, his nephew, just eight years of age but already showing signs of that height which was a de Hauteville family trait, though at present he was gangly rather than stocky. His uncle knew that to the boy he was an object of much admiration, not least because his mother was wont to sing in praise of her younger brother, regarding his purity, his prowess and his innate kindness as traits to aspire to.
‘Do not tell me, Tancred, I am keeping you waiting?’
‘I have no right to your time, Uncle, but I would be grateful for it.’
‘How polite you are, Tancred; one day you will make a good envoy, a man to send to soothe ruffled adversaries.’
‘I would rather be a soldier.’
‘Well said, my son,’ Emma responded. ‘I am sure, too, my brother would rather be in the manege with you than here in my chamber.’
‘Talking endlessly of outcomes the like of which we cannot know, sister.’
‘I would make you ruler of all Italy if it were my choice.’
Looking at the boy, Bohemund was about to laugh, not in derision but merely because what Tancred had proposed was absurd, yet the solidly serious expression on the lad’s face precluded mirth; he would not comprehend it.
‘And what do you see for yourself?’