Son of Blood (16 page)

The walls being stone, Robert’s voice reverberated, but now he dropped it to an even more terrifying whisper.

‘Know this, fool: 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.

Once they rendezvoused with the Otranto contingent, they changed course for the Corfu Channel, where Bohemund awaited them. The Byzantine governor of the island, on seeing the size of the forces now opposing him and knowing he could expect no aid from
Constantinople, readily surrendered all three of his castles. The tiny Greek garrisons were evicted to make way for Apulians and enough vessels were left to Robert’s new governor to make any attempt to use the channel a costly one.

Bohemund now in company, the fleet set sail with undiminished confidence for Valona, there to disembark the backbone of his forces, the men needed to secure his base and keep his army supplied and their equipment in good order, the remainder then destined to invest and capture the great port city of Durazzo, once the capital of Roman Illyricum and a place from which ran a proper Roman road, the Via Egnatia, all the way to the imperial Eastern capital. Once Durazzo was his, it would be his base for his march deep into Romania.

It was almost as if the ancient pagan gods, who had been worshipped when that road was built, felt the need to take a hand, to remind even the most mighty warrior of the sin of hubris. The storm that suddenly and unexpectedly hit Duke Robert’s fleet, coming out of the mountains of ancient Macedonia, was stunning in its violence, with a wind that tore sails from their eye bolts and waves of a size that, hitting galleys on their beam, had the force to so cant their decks that water flowed over the bulwarks and if they could not be quickly righted they capsized.

All Geoffrey Ridel’s attempts to get the fleet facing into the tempest, to point their prows into the waves, were hampered by a system of signalling that was primitive and required good vision. The rain that came with the storm made that impossible, a downpour so heavy that he was unable to even see those vessels sailing in close company, while the screaming wind carried away from them any voice commands he could yell through his speaking trumpet. Down below on the transport ships the horses were in panic, neighing and
snorting, kicking their stalls with such force that the timbers were being smashed, this while the men who would ride and fight on them sought, by whispers and endearments and holding their bridles hard, to calm them down, while at the same time being sick.

The storm died as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a still-heaving sea but clearing skies full of scudding clouds, the
Guiscard
now able to look out over a seascape of vessels in a sorry state: disordered, masts gone by the board, rudders smashed, galleys lacking oars, for so many had been ripped from the rowers’ hands by the sheer weight of water that hit them as they tried to steer. It took time to reimpose any cohesion, and when they counted what remained, that established how many had actually foundered and what the bill was in terms of human loss. Some no doubt wondered if the Duke would see this as his hopes dashed and return to Brindisi; those who knew him better never doubted their destination would remain fixed.

At Valona the temporary disembarkation proceeded with even greater disorder than that which had attended the departure from Brindisi – hardly surprising, given as much damage had been done below as had been done that was visible. But as off Corfu, the sight of such an armada and the force it carried was enough to open the gates to the citadel once it was made plain that failure to do so would result in a complete massacre for those who had taken refuge. The ships’ masters, especially those who commanded the fighting galleys, were endlessly harassed into getting the vessels back into good repair – there was no time to waste, for the speed of the Apulian attack was as vital as the level of its force; every day delayed gave the enemy time to mass to meet them.

If it was not as fine a sight as had departed Brindisi when they
weighed, it was still a potent force and a leaner one, a fighting fleet with minimum transports designed to both blockade and take Durazzo, a city which would not only open up to the
Guiscard
the whole of the lands now ruled by this Alexius Comnenus, but would deliver into his hands all those rebels who had fled from Italy: Abelard, Peter and the others, a band of ingrates whom he was determined should decorate the walls of the newly captured city with their skulls.

The storm had been a shock, but even that paled when, as they rounded the promontory that enclosed the great bight of Durazzo, they sighted another fleet – dozens of fighting galleys of a similar size to their vessels, but also a high proportion that carried a similar shape to, but seemed an improvement on, Byzantine dromons. This was a type of ship much more potent than their own, with a taller mast that carried a huge lanteen sail, bigger hulls that could accommodate two hundred men, twin banks of oars added to higher poops and foredecks. They were sitting outside the harbour of Durazzo, between the Apulians and the prize they sought, and there was only one power in the Adriatic who possessed such vessels.

‘Venetians,’ Robert spat.

It was even more galling to find out from the local inshore fishermen that they had only just beaten him to the bay. Had not that storm delayed him, the Apulian fleet would now occupy a defensive position outside the harbour, instead of their more powerful foe – one from which, even with such ships, it would have been hard to dislodge them.

D
urazzo stood at the northern end of a long bay, tucked into a fold of land that protected its harbour from the frequent storms that made their way down from the Alps, while a mole had been built out into the Adriatic to guard against most other eventualities. The greatest asset was the good and spacious holding ground outside, an anchorage that could accommodate hundreds of vessels, making it, as the end of the Via Egentia, the central point of the major land trade route to the East. Naturally, such an important city had well-built walls and towers, as well as a strong fortress, but if the port had a fault it was that the same long bay was lined with shallow sand, and that allowed an enemy to land in force well away from the ability of any local forces to prevent it.

That, along with a tight blockade, had been the
Guiscard
’s intention but the presence of the Venetian fleet and those dromons rendered that impossible. If he did land his army, that would leave
his undermanned ships at their mercy, and once they were destroyed, his forces would be stranded; in order to keep up their siege strength and then advance into the interior they needed to be supplied from Italy. Without that line of communication his mounted knights, the best fighters on foot as well as on horse, would spend most of their time protecting foraging parties and they, should the investment of Durazzo be of long duration, would be required to search further and further afield for the means to feed the host, increasingly weakening the numbers he could pit against city walls.

Robert assembled the ships’ masters as well as the men who commanded the soldiers borne on each vessel, to crowd out the deck of the ducal galley to discuss with them the forthcoming difficulties. They centred on the much larger vessels of the enemy fleet, not only because of their dimensions but also because of the higher number of fighting men they could carry, though he was not in doubt that the men under his command would fight regardless of such problems.

‘We must overcome the dromons, then disperse the rest of the Venetian galleys before we even think of setting foot on shore.’

‘A hard task,’ Geoffrey Ridel responded, as was his right as Master of the Fleet. ‘Even if the vessels we have can match theirs, Venetians are born to the sea, few of us are.’

‘War is war, Geoffrey, and I would hazard we are better at that than are they.’

‘Best to close with the dromons,’ Bohemund added, ‘and get aboard speedily. On deck we are more than a match for them. I would wager twenty Normans can best two hundred Venetians.’

Looking around the assembled faces as he said this, Bohemund could see that those Norman warriors were less troubled than the sailors; the former were conditioned to fight and would do so wherever
they found an enemy. The seafarers held such as the Venetians in high regard, and given the well-trained quality of crews who spent most of their time at sea, that caution was natural. Against that these ships’ masters had been working for months with their crews on battle tactics, the ability to manoeuvre quickly, the art of varying their speed to confound an opponent, seeking to perfect the ploy of bringing more force to bear at the right moment than any adversary could employ in return.

Many of them, Bohemund thought, must have wondered at why they were being so employed in that training, for they would have suspected that when the invasion of the lands of Romania were undertaken, they would be used as they always had been, to enforce a blockade. Perhaps now they saw such preparation as a sign of the genius of the man who led them, an act of foresight from a shrewd general who had anticipated what they now faced on this campaign. Bohemund knew better; they had been so engaged because his father had become fascinated by the art of naval warfare and the long-term possibilities it offered.

He wanted a fighting fleet because in the Western Mediterranean Sea only two other powers possessed one, the Venetians they now faced and the North African Saracens, and while he had seen no immediate purpose to it, given these were, he thought, distant and perhaps future enemies, he also knew that if he did take Constantinople he would likely need to be able to fight at sea to keep it. The fact that he now had something to oppose the Venetians in Durazzo Bay was more luck than prescience, but there was one question and that was simple – was it enough?

It was Geoffrey Ridel who responded to Bohemund’s confident statement about competence and odds. ‘You will have observed how
much higher those decks are than ours and the dromons will be the vessels in the vanguard of any battle.’

‘Then we must make a way to overcome them.’

‘You can just jump, Bohemund,’ Reynard of Eu joked, to general amusement. ‘We mere mortals need wings.’

‘Grappling irons and hooked ladders,’ Robert proposed, adding a glare that choked off the mirth. ‘We will distribute the bowmen to keep their sides clear and that will allow our conroys to use their hooks and lances to get on to their decks. I will guess these men are accustomed to fighting pirates, Saracens perhaps, not mailed knights and not Normans.’

‘My Lord, there is a small galley coming down the bay with a truce flag atop its mast.’

‘See!’ the
Guiscard
cried, as he craned his neck to acknowledge the message from the lookout above his head. ‘They know who we are and that is making them cautious.’

Geoffrey Ridel, without reference to Robert, bellowed orders to clear his deck, which sent those assembled over the side and into their waiting boats, Bohemund alone being asked to remain by his sire. The familia knights, now his own seaborne contingent of warriors, Robert lined up like a guard of honour, adjuring them to look as martial and fierce as they could without they insult his guest. The man they welcomed aboard came with ease across a gangplank strung between both vessels, a tricky manoeuvre given both were rising and falling at different rates on the swell. In doing so he underlined how easy he was on water, a statement that this, the sea, was a Venetian element, not a Norman one.

Dressed in soft leathers, covered with the kind of heavily embroidered silken cloak worn by high Byzantine officials, he also
had a great quantity of gold and jewellery about his person: rings, a heavy bracelet on his wrist and around his neck a gold chain studded with precious stones. This envoy had presence; the only thing that diminished him in proximity to these Normans was his height, for he was short, stocky, with thick black hair and a face much marked and wrinkled by long service at sea. Aware that he towered over the fellow, Bohemund by his side even more so, Robert called for chairs to be brought on deck prior to making a greeting. He also whispered to a servant that the man he was promoting as the deposed Emperor Michael Dukas should be kept out of sight; this fellow may have seen the real one.

The fellow knew his manners; in the presence of a duke he doffed his hat and bowed to introduce himself. ‘Maximian Palladias, My Lord, Master of the Fleet of Venice.’

‘You do me much honour by coming in person, Maximian Palladias.’

‘I could do no less to such an illustrious warrior as yourself, My Lord. To send a subordinate to talk with you would be marked as an insult to your person as well as your title.’

Two chairs having been brought on deck as this exchange of diplomatic niceties took place, Duke Robert indicated that they should sit, which they did, and a wave of the ducal arm saw everyone withdraw to give them room to talk in private, Bohemund excepting himself by remaining within earshot which, when the Venetian looked in his direction, got a nod from his sire.

‘I hope you have not come to ask me to withdraw.’

‘Would a man not be foolish to suggest such a thing to the
Guiscard
?’

Robert nodded at the compliment, without for a second giving it credence. ‘Then what?’

‘The Doge of Venice is a vassal of the Emperor of Byzantium—’

Robert held up a hand, which stopped his visitor speaking. ‘I am curious to know which one that is, Maximian, given it seems to have been a troubled throne, and recently occupied by more than one person.’

That got a corresponding nod from the Venetian. ‘The request to us to prevent you landing in Romania came from Alexius Comnenus, the man who now wears the purple and the crown.’

‘And to him you are loyal?’

Maximian waved a hand that was intended to encompass his fleet, anchored to the north in an arc that covered the entrance to Durazzo harbour. ‘It is a matter of some talk aboard our vessels.’

‘Which means that there are those who see Alexius as a usurper?’

‘My Lord, in any great domain there are factions. As of this moment it is impossible for me to know who, if any of those under my command, holds the ascendancy in terms of allegiance.’

‘And your own?’

‘Lord Robert, I would not be here on this deck if I was not a supporter of any man that can hold the Empire together. I see Alexius Comnenus as being that person by right of both his abilities and his bloodline. He is, after all, the nephew of a previous emperor.’

‘Not Botaneiates or Dukas?’ The response to that was no more than a raised eyebrow; this man was not to be so easily drawn. ‘You must know that I have the Emperor Michael Dukas with me and I would see it as an obligation to consider that he has a right to your loyalty.’

‘The news that you carry Michael Dukas in your train is part of the problem I face.’

‘It has spread?’

‘Such tales do.’

‘It is not a tale, but a fact.’

‘One that I may take leave to dispute, though not all of my captains agree.’

‘So your command is not unified?’

‘It is not in disarray,’ Maximian insisted. ‘But there is as yet a lack of the concord that might bring us to force upon you a battle; one, I would point out to you, you cannot win given our superiority in ships.’

‘I am not accustomed to defeat,’ Robert replied, for the first time in this exchange his voice carrying a hard edge.

‘On land, My Lord.’

‘It is not unknown for a land-based general to adapt to the ocean with success. I look to Ancient Rome and its consuls for such inspiration.’

‘And,’ Maximian responded, with a level of courtesy that was unctuously exaggerated, ‘who would be more likely to be that person than your renowned self?’

‘Maximian Palladias, I respect the fact that you have come in person to see me, which tells me you have a proposal to make.’

‘I do, Duke Robert. It may be that elements in my fleet will not agree to do battle on behalf of Alexius Comnenus, which would seriously weaken my fighting strength.’

‘You’re inviting me to attack you as soon as you are back on your own deck and that truce flag is no longer valid.’

‘Be assured, Duke Robert, that if you do so the outcome will not be in doubt, for there is not a ship’s master or soldier aboard my vessels who will not defend their honour, and not just seek to preserve that, but to put to the sword and the bottom of the sea anyone seeking to besmirch it.’

‘So?’

‘It may be that a battle will not take place, that I will be unable to obey the Doge’s instructions. In that case there will be no contest between us. What I am proposing is that we maintain our present positions, no anchors to be raised while the period of grace is in place.’

‘And if you withdraw I will be free to land my army?’

‘That is so. I suggest that I be granted a day and a night to seek to resolve my dilemma, and if it goes as I wish, I will send to tell you that we will prepare for battle, at which point I would, for the sake of saving lives and souls, advise you to withdraw, which you will be able to do unmolested.’

It was the
Guiscard
’s turn to use his eyebrows to make a point, that being he might choose to stay and fight, this acknowledged by Maximian with a wry smile as Robert enquired, ‘And if it goes the other way?’

‘Then, as I have already intimated, I will have no choice but to weigh anchor and take the fleet back to Venice.’

Robert dropped his chin to his chest, to give the impression of deep consideration, a silence that lasted for enough time to make Maximian shift in his chair. That was followed by a stare from the
Guiscard
that was deliberately designed to be hard to hold, though the Venetian was not to be compelled to drop his eyes or blink.

‘A day and a night, Maximian Palladias, but not a grain of sand more than that. Should your dilemma be unresolved when the time is up, be assured that we will attack you and, perhaps for the sake of your own souls, you should avoid the contest. I will have Durazzo and more besides.’

‘I have your word?’

‘You do.’

Maximian stood and bowed, then without another word he made his way onto that swaying plank and back to his own galley. Robert watched him go and did not speak till he was out of any chance of overhearing his words.

‘The fool has played into our hands, Bohemund.’

‘How so?’

Robert hooted. ‘He has given us time to prepare, to get those grappling irons out of our supply ships and to send a party ashore to cut timber for ladders and ready them for use. With the vessels he has he should have borne down on us as soon as he saw our masts.’

‘They will be watching us, and even at such a distance they may see what we are about.’

‘Let them, Bohemund, for they would expect no less.’ Then he turned to Geoffrey Ridel. ‘Call everyone back on board, they need to know what is proposed and what we need to do.’

In the subsequent discussion of tactics it was plain that those using grappling irons could not at the same time be fighters wearing mail; to haul up your own body weight was hard enough without both weapons and armour. Besides, hooked irons were normally used to haul down walls damaged by ballista by being attached by ropes to teams of oxen; it was rare that they were used to get a man onto a high defended wall for the very sound reason that a single slice with a sword would send him crashing back to earth. Ridel was of the opinion that the same problem applied on board ship and that such a means of approach should be used sparingly and more to lock the enemy alongside than to get men onto an opposing deck. Duke Robert was inclined to let what men saw before their eyes decide what use they should be put to, battle ever being confused.